Poetry

Ascension

There’s a throne
at the end
of the world,
placed at the
edge
of the
ledge
overlooking forever,
a keen-edged
broadsword
leans there
in royal repose
waiting to
sever
what looms behind,
those wounding ropes
that bind
and the lies
of what never was.
Only those that
dare to become
gods
have grasped
its hilt
while their selves
cried out,
“Wilt thou
cleave me asunder?”
And the thunder
crashed
as the blade sliced
and they became
as lightning,
exploding time,
infusing everything,
blissfully nothing,
just vague
memories
floating through
shadows,
drops of dew
on stained-glass
windows

Categories: Poetry

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