Metatron, pray be kind; I am weary and falling behind.
These earthly shoes I so did choose;
tofore I went, up off knees bent,
shoulders squared, the Dark beware!
Silver shortsword swinging at my side
in synchronicity with my stride,
poised and ready to stand for life, ne'er a scintilla of fear for strife,
aver Heaven's army behind my knife.
This mission I did volunteer, my own accord to witness bear;
as envoy, fay, or warrior, as messenger or Harkener.
I have not, will not, lay my sword, down on upon an ending word.
This heart not so brave as resolute, courage was an absolute;
No trepidation on my nape, nor uncertainty to lay in wait.
The road was cobblestoned with truth,
each brick inlaid behest to move in patent exhortation;
not in need of explanation.
Imperceptibly the way turning slowly with each day
from the solid, even ground, into something more or less profound.
Steeper and steeper yet, cobbles loose and slippery wet;
here a wall straight up to scale; now a chasm of a vale.
Wilderness around my head, pays no heed per hap I'm dead.
Strain my eyes to find a trail, blazes have all long past failed.
Compass now my dearest friend, guides me as I wind and wend;
thank you Metatron, for this, an onliest and precious gift.
The shortsword silver at my waist is heavy and its blade oft scrapes
at my own flesh while forth it swings.
I might trade it for a pair of wings
to soar above this baleful trek, and find a hidden place to rest,
or rocket off into the sky where angels do not care to fly,
and carry off away from here my very heart, my young so dear.
To anger, no, to rage, I'm stirred, to be inadequate as shelter
for the one whose charge I'm called, against this mortal caterwaul!
I loathe to see his feet are sore, his crown unshielded, spirit torn;
Just how and what, how much to guide, and when to know to step aside?
This mission I did volunteer, my own accord to witness bear;
as envoy, fay, or warrior, as messenger or Harkener.
I have not, will not, lay my sword, down on upon an ending word.
Dear Metatron have mercy still
when on your book you work your quill:
my given name if your hand writes, pray see me in a friendly light.
Forgive my frail and human form,
not always strong against the storms.
I fell and faltered, on knees and hands,
at times my legs refused to stand.
Such beasts you sent to challenge me, to hone my foil mastery.
Not every one I recognized; my shame that I was hypnotized.
And avalanches, hail and mire! Chasing me from wrong and dire
shortcut paths that I desired to use instead of frost and fire.
Grateful is my beating heart for gracious wisdom you impart
to this unworthy little soul, battered, torn and unconsoled.
This mission I did volunteer, my own accord to witness bear;
as envoy, fay, or warrior, as messenger or Harkener.
But if I may have one request, to find a cool, soft place to rest.
I have not, will not, lay my sword, down on upon an ending word;
continue on this quest I will. And pray for mercy with thy quill.
~M.Black
