The Glory Hand
A Dark, Cthonic Fantasy on Ancient Superstitions
The light that flickers, fades to black;
To late to press a doomed attack,
And yet you'll find the things you lack
Within the never-place:
The things you've seen now see you too,
And gazing deep their eyes see through
The manied things that make you you,
At least upon your face.
Is there a chance this will end well?
The sea of flesh, macabre swell,
And here I stood before I fell,
How easy now to chase;
That precipice, the genius-line,
As wit and wisdom now resign,
And ancient stars move to align
In portents' dire embrace.
The fires burn but won't consume,
And if you'd run away, there's room,
Or stay the course and meet your doom,
For fates await your choice;
You'll never know unless you try,
But madness grows and heroes die,
The piper's call ever-nigh,
And screams consume your voice.
As if from slumber, slowly wake,
The eyes that flash, the hands that shake;
The sacrifice, the dire stake,
That rests at thy command.
The siren song's a sickly keen,
The dagger deep, the wound is clean;
And offered power's dark, unseen -
Beware the glory-hand.
About the Creator
Drew Dunlop
Drew is a poet and author, writing slightly ominous fantasy-inspired poetry! He does that when the rest of life allows it, so read up, and more will be forthcoming.
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