A Story Told
By Muninn's Kiss (2012-08-17)
A figure stands in red and black,
Before a black stone altar.
She does not move, does not act,
Does not so much as stir.
The deed's been done, the knife has dropped,
The thread is already cut.
A life is done, the story ends,
Her role has all been done.
A figure stands all in black,
Dark robes hide his face.
His bone white hands as cold as death,
Stretch forth to welcome home.
A book is open in one wraith hand,
Chained firmly to his wrist.
His wings outstretched as black as night,
As he reads the final words.
The knife is sheathed, the book is closed,
The cave quiet like the grave.
The traveler waits for she knows not what,
Before the Gates of Death.
A laughter comes from a blood red veil,
Joined from a pure black hood.
Skeletal hands reach out, pull wide,
The Gates that all must face.
Blinding light, brighter than the sun,
That blind the traveler.
Darkest dark, that can be felt,
Brings a chill to every bone.
First one step, and then another,
She walks toward the gap.
And slips on past to death's embrace,
Where Light and Darkness merge.
