The Sage (Verse Vii, Risen) Poem by Warren Atherton

“Inhospitable wretch! Do you quickly forget
Your defeat at the Pittacal Door?
The Dark Lord himself is still no more a threat
To the power of all Tillanho lore.

And what does he send? A demonic disgrace,
Who was slain as he taunted me then,
And as punishment doomed to a rank, hellish place
For your cowardly flee from my men.

Hear of me well while a fraction remains
Of your soul, or eternally burn!
Afterwhich, there will be not a hope of refrain.
Take a tip from this Master and learn.

A fusion of light now began to ascend
And enveloped the Sage where he lay.
A myriad colours, hypnotic their blend –
A procurement of blinding display.

The howl of the Demon cocooned in the shell
Of the cavernous gorge underground,
Could be heard far and wide of its’ menacing yell –
One more entity “penance” had found.

A deep, distant thunder-clap boomed overhead
As the Sage resurrected the earth
From the dark, murky depths of the lost and the dead,
To surmountable, salient mirth.