A Blighted Vale – The Vessel (pt.1)

A Blighted Vale

A solitary figure off the beaten path,
The air a palpable gloom
Be it mortal or shade of someone passed,
No longer in want of a tomb
Betwixt a shuffling gait and steady pace,
A sole impression leaves foliage displaced
This mark being the only telltale trace
It may be of flesh and blood,
And not trick of the moon

At a glance— one clothed in religion,
Or belief in superstition
May perchance—mistake this form,
For haunting apparition
Till the snapping of dry twigs and leaves,
Ragged garments snagging trees
Footfalls, placing fauna ill at ease—
This IS flesh and blood,
Allaying all doubt and suspicion

A weathered woman of years gone passed,
Innocence of youth—long ago
Whose leathery hide, worn and cracked,
Lays bare a tale of hardship and woe
Though she’s endured this life cruel
Her gaze still pierces deepest blue
That belies a fire ‘neath azure pools
Her body a shell, scorned and wracked,
But the eyes— windows to the soul

This corporeal form—not shade,
But mere mortal deduced
Wrapped in cloth tattered and frayed,
Sways from limbs like hangman’s noose
Though the night’s biting chill— ill-favored,
She does not stumble, falter, nor waver
Not till completion of one final labor
Then, Death take hold the reins,
And shuffle the mortal coil loose

Through the tangle, muck, and mire—
Every inch of pernicious terrain—
Punishes flesh, but heart’s desire,
Stokes the embers that keep soul aflame
Aided by moon’s celestial lighting,
Quells the fear within from rising
As journey’s end meets the horizon
A blighted vale, where devils conspire—
Where darkness and despair hold domain

Amongst the dead and dying trees,
A Stygian crypt of crumbling stone
A doorway opened—not with man-made keys,
But forgotten tongue, from forgotten tome
This ancient ruin with obscured glyphs,
Gently brushed clean with calloused tips
Whispered words from cracked, parched lips—
Spill forth with unhindered ease,
Like oft spoken lines from cherished poem

Through parted lips—unfiltered words,
Hang heavy on the autumn breeze
An incantation—profane and absurd,
With pressed palms and soiled knees
Then, a deafening clap like thunder,
Rends the bark and stone asunder
Unblinking— her eyes transfixed with wonder
Beneath the cloak of night, something stirred,
Within the smoldering debris

Amidst the rubble, a stifling plume,
Coalesced from ash and stone
Sears the throat with each breath consumed,
Seizing muscle and aching bone
Then, a much welcomed reprieve,
Unfettering her senses and lungs to breathe
As the expelled miasma slowly recedes,
And takes on an appearance that mirrors her own

From blackened debris—this Phantom figure,
Whose form and features— to her’s, akin
Its visage, a reflection—not of her cold exterior,
But tempered rage contained within
Under its gaze— a violent shiver
Her once steady hands— now a tremor
Its eyes—a cauldron of glowing embers,
Set ablaze with devilish grin

~~~

Watch for more works like ‘A Blighted Vale’ by Raven Mirthwood as he starts publishing. You can find Raven’s author page on The Creative Exiles at Raven Mirthwood (creativeexiles.com)

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Raven Mirthwood

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