Finn's Parlour

Your threats, long since, have had their sting  removed
Now like an ancient, toothless and half mad
You stir no fear, but pity in the breasts
of all your host who yearn for gloried days
When on that palm-held world we strode and fought
And of corrupt decay and chaos wrought
Creation- by your word and will decreed.
Those days are gone, and mourn we for their fall.

The Master:

I bid your tongue be silent!  Traitor worm!
My armed and armoured host, fall to and seize
This cold, dissenting fool who to my face
Foul slander speaks, and treason to his king!

The Servant:

My tongue still wags.  I unmolested stand.
Your host move not to heed your peevish call.
I stand and slander still. Across your world
The sparrows fall, the wind blows where it will.
The day draws to a close.  This seventh day.
And from your halls and service I must go.
I take my leave, Once High, to wait for dawn
And in Valhalla's shadow greet the morn.



 

Gone. Death forsworn of me, gone. Desert captive
Created being all gone. Simple. Rotten;
Commonly miscall'd.  You’re created
And a ill. Most ill: but beggar being trimm'd
I die from being beheld. You that part and to
immortal sway I make. Being I your o'er-
read, earth-forsworn beggar or breather.  

Tongue-tied in your honour hence, being each, I take you.
And world-eyes would rehearse.
I cannot too commonly sway truth, my virtue.
Folly disgraced, and though surviving forgotten
Where these, disgraced, and you by o'er-read honour part. 

Your name that these in part misplaced,
Your all, which hath with life-death verse, miscall'd earth;

Hence each attending nothing-memory ! 
To controlling breathers shall you be.
I am your breath! You lie common, alone.
Where? Where? Cry! Leave earth! Your earth, purest memory!
And, even being earth.entombed shall purest be.

The eyes climb open and the light begins
To slowly work inside
And memory returns of what has been:
Clean for so long, what pride
Was taken in that triumph of the will.
All gone. No pride, no more.
A dream of needles, and not just a dream,
Tore down the night before
With awful knowledge that a single drop
Of what was never real
Has left this paragon once more, again,
A slave to hollowed steel
So should he strive again with foolish pride
And prove himself a clown?
Or fill the cylinder so heaven-full
And push the plunger down?