The Lore

i will now speak to all that have spoken before
the gods beneath rocks and the trees of night
the rivers run deep with the whispers of leaves
i fear i may die for revealing this blight
there is a rumbling of earth and of moon and of bow
of weary browed ancients that stalk the pale light
the crawlers now lurk where the darkness won’t creep
and fear has removed itself far from the sheep
a formless foe dwells in the shadow-lit corners
in taverns of ill and the shanties of woe
travelers be warned not to venture off course
a dinner you’ll make for that weasel remorse
your stories til now have been of the old
of monsters that killed not for pleasure or gold
now there are things that writhe in the weakness
to paint on this land for three bags of mould
you wander along the streets of your mind
careless to stirrings in alleys and sewer
the men on the night and the poison that feeds
a whisper to madness
humanity bleeds
the vermin we seek lie not in the gutters
they beg not for food or for shelter or butter
they nest in the courtyards and float across floor
on clouds made of servants and oppression galore
reap the storm sown by the hands of your forebears
by the swords that fell down for illusions of freedom
stare into eyes not unlike your old pair
a fresh blend of iris and innocence glare
prancing about as if they knew now
what we struggled to find in the shadows of how
show them the flames of resistance and hope
in furnaces stoked with the telling of when
our people were something
our people


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