Week 17

...ish
This is based on The Wayfarer's Redemption series by Sara Douglass.
Never Forget My Name

Let me tell you my child, of my own tired life.
I've endured a childhood filled with horror and strife,
My father of falsehood who had slain my mother young,
Tore out my wings when each feather grew strong.

Perhaps it was fear that drew him 'long that path,
But I'm more inclined to think twas the Plow-Keeper's wrath,
The hate of The Forbidden they preached to us all,
But we know now the truth. We've seen Artor's great fall.

My mother laughed with joy as she saw my wings thrive,
And said to me, "I knew your proof of godhood would arrive!"
But sadly the Plow-Keeper saw them far too soon,
And destroyed my life right there in that room.

Oh, even now I can hear her last tortured screams,
As I hid from the sight of the horrendous things,
But his torture of my life was not quite complete,
And he turned back to me with a gaze of heat.

He tore out my wings with his righteous vigor apparent,
Choosing to torment my life, his own became quite errant,
My mother is buried there, outside and alone,
For now only I know where her body was thrown.

Even now, with the Plow-Keeper long gone,
I regret that I cannot hear my mother's song.
Her name is lost, forever perhaps unknown,
So now I request that you never forget my own.

And truth is shown in your bounding light,
For now I know true peace after long blight,
"Azhure!" you say with boisterous glee,
"Never fear mother, I'll always remember thee."

Week 3

As is often the case with me, when I am reading a book I find great inspiration in the words written. At the moment I am currently enjoying Empress by Karen Miller which tells the story of Hekat, a girl sold to slavery who has more to give in her life than that of a slave. This poem is written in regards to her first feat of might in the light of her god.

Godchosen

"Who are you? What are you?" you ask with fear in your eyes,
As you kneel before her, your she-brat demise,
A killer of chicken, a slayer of sheep,
Who would have thought that she could not be so weak.

Godspeaker, Godchosen, knife-dancer with snake-blade,
Warrior, Warlord breeder, watch as legends are made,
She dances with skill, with precision, with grace,
Her dances are beautiful despite the scars upon her face.

She dances the field, through life, with skill,
Blood-rage upon her, the god will have his fill,
Each slash she deals, each piercing stab,
A tribute to the god for his will to grab.

So watch as she dances the field and with scorpion's strike,
Steals your godspark, your essence, your life,
Before her Warlord kneeling below,
She shows him the future, one you'll never know.