color only comes by that invisible bark
of thought that winds away into a fantasy.
Ever since I came here i knew you were like me,
living only for that vibrant slice
squashed ever smaller as we grow ever older
and the toil required to survive sucks away
when all we want is time to escape
Don't you want to live in a story?
where magic runs deep in the
sparking lights in the woods and
and every day the great flying beasts soar over
looping into and weaving down the gales
screaming for the sheer rush of it,
where the light comes shining down
growing the green things up
and food and laughter and
good drinks spread all over
and the road runs up over the horizon,
where at every pass some monster
waits to wrestle the life from your bones?
Don't you almost want it—
some terrible evil to overtake the land
Then you will see them—the resilient few
when everyone else surrenders,
and slip into a dull existence,
forgetting the weightier things—
then they stand against the world, their light
is suddenly visible now that darkness has
encompassed everything else
and in the inevitable resulting faceoff—
the resilient are scattered.
Surviving, yet not enough
as though some silver thread of Fate
beyond mortal knowledge bound
back the darkness from utter destruction
It always starts with a foretelling,
some word repeated from the dawn of time,
someone is coming to deal the death-blow
this is how you will recognize them,
this is the place they will be born,
these are the powers they will reveal—
powers that reach beyond all magic
discovered up to this point,
this is the kingdom they will inherit
(because the Hero always comes
from some forgotten line of kings),
and the elders of the resilient pass
down the message for age on age until
the young ones begin to wonder
if there is any truth to this sort of thing at all.
And yet—for all that—
nobody recognizes them when they come.
yet quietly, almost without effort,
every syllable, every pause of the prophecy
works itself into their life, as if
some silver thread of Fate had been waiting
Then impossibly great power of the darkness
fully manifests—blinding even the resilient,
so busy trying to save the world
that practically none of them pay their Hero
any attention whatsoever,
and those who do are stupid, clumsy, timid,
all together more of a hindrance than a help
so in the final inevitable faceoff
when the Hero prepares for the
ultimate confrontation of the forces of evil
It can happen in stories.
You know the tropes—the hero's journey,
taken by the one with a thousand faces,
who dies every year but comes around again
in the spring, bringing life with him.
It is just when the forces of evil think
and turn to wipe out the world forever
that he rises and deals that
foretold, final blow to them
sending shockwaves backward and forward
through the fabric of time itself
binding anything the darkness
by that silver thread of fate that winds back and
stems from his God-like power,
and as the dust settles slowly on the
eyes to see the spiritual
look upon him and behold the
face of resplendent Deity—
if only our world had someone like that.
areudirty
amandla
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