To Replenish Their Light

Ancient oaks lined the path.

Spanish moss, grey,
a subtle splash
in the dusk, barely lit,
torchlight, fireflies flit
on their way to, turn and twist,
gather the sun’s last rays
and replenish their light.

I pressed on,
horrors surely near,
certain the elder ghosts hunted.
They, hidden inside the oaks,
like twisted dryads,
hungry for, feasting on,
thin scraps of wanderers’ prayers,
and this traveler’s shaking bones,
oh, the jostle and clatter,
amidst the icy-blood

Young and brave,
I stayed the road
and reached the end.

Your father’s mansion,
dreadful, expansive.
Pillared gates, cathedral spires,
all built with blood and ire.

This night,
I wore my best shirt,
the grey one,
a button held by wire.
Trousers, threadbare,
so unworthy it hurt.

I, the disgrace, dared ask for
your hand?

But we were young, foolish, and bold.

Moonlight brushed my skin,
a stark light in the darkness,
my skin matched the pallid glint,
moonlit, glimmer sharply.

The iron knocker lay cold in my hand,
a merest rap, cacophony,
resounded in the manse.

Echoing on-and-on,
it birthed a heartbeat
for the beast your father built.
In time, the doors swung wide
and I was enthralled
by what dwelled within.

Before me,
the most beautiful sight,
my soon-to-be bride,
radiant, floating
in a cloud of gossamer white.

Your father fell ignored,
there by the door.
I was transfixed
by your descent
down the staircase,
spiralling, and your
bare feet peeked
from the hem
to the floor.

Pale skin… no, fair.

Your jet black mane gleamed,
yet reflected no light.
You looked icy and cold,
like the chill of the night,
but I knew better,
because I felt your flames.

You are molten inside,


pulling in the light,

so you can use it more wisely.

My heat rose at the collar.
Peasant shirt, sweating through,
I could have no other.
I would never understand
why you chose me,
but the gifts you gave,
you gave freely.

Now I,
the grey-clad peasant,
like a moth,
am forever drawn
to your light.

But, now I understand
why your father wished me ill.
When our fingers touched,
the fires raged,
caught the curtains
and reached for the gate.

Burn, burn we must,
this is our fate.

We will burn
away your father’s mansion of hate,
and dance into the ancient oaks
to feed the fireflies
for the coming day.

©️ Obol, 2018-2019.

From the old blog.

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