The Prose of Beausephe
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He walked forward,
The same pace, though they were running,
Each step boomed with a symphony,
Of fear of his coming, of what they had released,
What no one but himself had control of,
through the seering flames he felt nothing,
though his eyes seemed to soak them up.
They stared with that same glare,
of loathing and pain, yet not changing,
or squinting from the heat,
they looked forward at their prey,
not hearing the screams of the helpless men,
or the young woman
or the child.
Remembering on each slow step,
his own cries of pain, of suffering,
and of their cold stares.
But that was not why they would die like this,
The four years of torture we're forgotten,
What they had done, was unforgivable,
What they all had done would tear at his heart until they were dead
They had taken from him the only reason for exsistance,
the one thing he could go to and say was his.
His love.
His wrath would not stop, until four of the original seven were dead.
The rest, would go insane. Forever to remain and worship this shrine
to his devestation.
For they had been there at his birth, this council of seven,
And they thought they had molded him to their own liking,
But this black day, the leader, the seer, the taker and the child,
would perish in his blade of fire,
When he had finished, the deed, he walked leaving the writhing bodies of the survivers.
And as he walked the flames burned higher,
and all that could be heard were the cries of agony,
and the cackling of an old man smoking a dragon pipe.
So he would walk,
The blank page,
The angel born of nothing,
until he would once more find that center of the universe,
that womb of the unknown,
where he had been conceived.
Where he had known his place.
