The bane of a chosen one is the death of his prophecy.

Dead Prophecy

Dust and fragmented scrolls dance along the floor
They whisper as they are moved by a wind which never blew
I sit paralyzed in the light, a darkness calls to me from a locked door
Incarcerated by my humanity, a pestilence, a beast I never slew

Unfulfillment is the burden which struck me down
A perverted Fortuna taunts me in her dirty gown
In my wrathful dreams I break her hips and scorch her lips
It is my searing desire to have her blood drip from my fingertips

I live this nightmare; every moment a relentless torment
Yet I sing no dirge, neither do I wail nor lament
I shed my tears in calm silence
Though inside me there is but chaos and violence

My tongue is bound anyways
My hands and feet are shackled by the Light
Doomed to never bring the darkening of days
In my heart, rot and decay is not its blight

As though in spite; one last honour I achieved
My face is from its human visage relieved

Poetry by Rex Panthera
Read 598 times
Written on 2010-06-14 at 21:26

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Brilliant and very strong, dark poetry. Liked it!

Doreen Cavazza
This feels of despair, defeat, sorrow. At one point I thought it him being held prisoner by his own hand, but then what of she who taunts him....I like this piece, it's very moving.