SORiaN ArT ©

The Wraith of War

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Path of words, tortuous path,

Old path, older than any...

From the beginning of consciousness,

Since its first light

In this realm,

Taken by thoughts

That come into this world,

To become our world..

Thoughts born from fears

And urges of wrath

And hunger and lust...

That was all that was before

Since the fall,

No land of peace,

Above this thundering ocean,

No love in its womb

Of dark.

A narrow passage,

Almost unseen,

Mysteriously born

On the fringe of awe,

Brought feeble words

On arid lips of man,

Like clouds in the night sky,

Blown bright by the distant glow of the moon,

At the edge of its light.

Dawn of lips it was,

First time they strived..

Clamped together like stones..

Never had they tried before

To soften their hardness,

As never had they been alive,

Before talking their words.

A river of awareness poured through them,

To make man choose...

Should thoughts ever spring in his garden,

Through speech they shall betide,

To praise their shine...

Still, beneath his lips,

Howling,

Thoughts, raving thoughts...

Of odium and contempt,

Lingering

Volcanoes of breathtaking rush,

Only faceless masks

Of melted whims and dreams,

Bonding through the might of their blind yearning,

Subtly insinuating into the lifeline of man's hands,

Inside the look in his eyes,

Brazenly...

Thoughts without bodies,

Never uttered in this realm,

Lie stranded with unrest like in a shrine,

Eagerly waiting to breathe

Through man's flesh,

To triumph over its presence.

War was buried near the surface

In the land of man,

Hiding in the remains of his beginning...

Merely whispered,

Supreme path of how his fears happen in the world,

The Odin of his unsettled revenges

The ruin of his remorse.

War...craft of death,

Raised unwittingly from our past nothingness,

In the wake of the shout of fears

Smothering our lips,

Making from man barbarian clay,

Mandragora of vanity gone astray

In ego's bottomless gorges.

Wraith of war, oddly beguiling,

With taste of power hunger on its wings

Is singing into uncertain horizons,

Dauntlessly flying its shadow through thoughts

Of attachment to the world,

Like a pilgrim of deception

In its deserts.

***