Emperor

A man who has lost himself searches for his home.

Breaking from the siren song, the weary soul with aching soles
Fastens to a memory in restless search for fleeting home;
A labyrinth of entombed kings becomes a squalid place to sleep,
But deadened senses opens minds to ghosts of too-familiar tone.
So as runs the fevered mind, post haste flies the mired feet,
For ghosts would hold him to the crypt, deny the oath he swore to keep.

Babylon the Great herself resigns her post and turns to him,
Lamia at belied glance, a Gorgon soul rests underneath;
So holds his will, brave Ancestor, with sovereign kin as watchful eyes,
Grips his yellow dagger tight, all across the dead-wood heath.

The full moon flies toward its zenith, peaking at the witching hour,
Behold a cabin in the woods, garden blossomed with bellflowers;
Respite from the baying wolves, he stumbles to its hearth-warm door.
Then as the sturdy oak creaks slow, he supplicates in warming glow,
The family inside revealed brings the tired heart to meal;
Breaking bread and toasting wine, “to good souls reaching out to heal!”
Illusion cedes to starker truth, alone he sits in pitch black room,
The vile ash within this tomb fills his soul with creeping doom.

Out into the dawning morrow, lonely trails call for travel;
Remnants of a ruined keep, worn down by ancient strife,
Spotted on the conquered hill, overseeing naught but gravel,
Housing only Lilith now, and her nocturnal wildlife.
So on he walks, fierce Conqueror, through fields rife with pallid grey,
Grieve the fallen underfoot, in rows and rows of unnamed graves.

He thinks back to days long past, dissension rose through peasant ranks,
The swelling disapproval flowed like water through the village gates;
Letters footed here and there beneath the nose of watchful eyes,
Blinded then to discord’s song, militias soon began to rise.

With the task of rooting out the leaders of these traitor kin,
Granted prior pardon from the Elder for his acts of sin,
He and his men, by village went, to bring the sowers in.
The task at hand had proven tough, so violence was used,
By the end, with hundreds dead, the spark of war was fused.
So at last, Inquisitor, by whom a civil war unraveled:
Where he fought, the vanguard line, became the path that he now travels.
When war ran through, new leaders rose, and exiled him from his abode,
So walks on, a nomad soul, in restless search for fleeting home.

A Gatekeeper, the Silent Lord, keeps his post eternally,
Eyes the Nomad’s frail gait, and speaks his long unheard of piece:
“Beyond these gates, the Jackal’s land, where creatures wait with monstrous names,
Where rites are passed and gods reside, where hearts of men are bared to weigh.
Who passeth through, and triumphs all, in glory shall they find their soul,
Imbalanced hearts, or faltered kin, into the waiting maw they go;
And second death, no chance of rest, is where such tortured souls will be,
So, knowing this, I ask you thus: are you prepared to make your peace?”

Weighing thoughts within his mind, the Wanderer is at a loss,
“I could turn back, and grovel deep, to see my family once again.
My soul so heavy with regret, so should I even dare to cross?
Can a history be cleansed when it’s been stained with so much red?”

Responding so, the Loving Lord, benevolence rings from his voice,
“Hold fast to your honest track, and feather-light your soul becomes,
Whether pure or balanced heart, as both are worthy of rejoice,
The test beyond can be surpassed if positive or zero sum.”
So crosses through, grave Severer, prepared to give his heart to deal,
For a chance to return home or else become a demon’s meal.

The Western Ram, on his boat east, with guardians abound,
Calls out to the Wayfarer with an eternal sound,
“What is this, a mortal soul, walking through this land?
Come to me, so I may know what task you have at hand.”
Explains his cause to these divine, and when they see his view,
The Vagabond, by council told, they’d see his journey through.
Aboard the boat, by river run, they sail through the scene,
and witness foul creatures glaring at them from the green.

The far east end the river reached was greeted by a change,
The Ram swaps horns with feathers, and his mouth becomes a beak.
“We’ve passed you through the hardest part, but from this task you can’t abstain,
So go on to the Scale’s Guard, and take care how you speak.”
The Eastern Bird now switches boats and he departs for western land.
Leaving life behind, the Nomad walks onto the burning sand.