The Golden Hilt
In a dream, in a castle, in a faraway land I stand,
before the ghosts of man, animal, ‘n Gods of Know.
I, with Their blade of golden hilt in hand,
‘n in whose presence I swore this vow . . .
. . . When, with parting ‘n dismissive bow,
I awoke to find the sword I spoke,
beside the fire’s standing poke.
Its hilt aglow from lost Flames’ soul,
casting ghostly shadows upon the floor,
like ghastly ghosts of frightening lore.
When a knock . . . ever so faintly,
so lightly fell upon my door.
Tho’ was there knock upon my door?
Or clever deception of sleep I wore?
But another . . . quite clearly,
so heavily fell upon my door.
Rising I stood ‘n thought the more,
to take Their sword of golden hilt,
‘n thrust it thru this specter’s kilt.
Yet I spoke the more,
“Hast thou come to give my temper test,
or condemn my spirit to eternal rest?”
But only a knock replied the door.
Yes, only a knock upon my door,
‘n I, grew hesitant all the more!
With chilling breath it swept the sash,
howling, rattling loose door’s latch.
In gusting raging frightening roar,
slung the door from hinges tore.
‘n who, pray tell, there standing there,
in darkened hazy reflective glare?
Yes I, an echo of the shame I became,
a chained ‘n bound, ‘n sleeping maim.
Enslaved to culture, tradition, ‘n vogue,
by popular, piety, ‘n rogue.
Now the golden hilt a fiery glow,
shining brightly of the Fires soul,
reminds me of my vow ‘n role,
‘to free myself ‘n never sold,
to those who mold their schemes to gold.’
So with Spirits’ blade of blazing hilt,
I slay the cunning who fell to slit.
. . . ‘n I now free forevermore,
beyond the sway of lying mores.