Nathrangking

Poem 18                                                              

                                                   Muse of Composition

Oceans like pitch beneath the wrathful fists of a deity whose rage has broken free of all bonds toss and simmer. Spears of silver flames tear the skies asunder in ways that not even the most skilled weaver can repair. Mountains crumble when this destruction flies from the seas to consume the whole of the mortal world. Ancient forests from the most primordial epochs are swept away as by a child in a fit of spiteful ire. Pounding rain descends from on high and attempts to purify the land by leaving nothing behind. Those who are named deities watch in wonderment as desolation not brought by their hands ends all that they have created. Temples fall into ruin and all of the cities of humanity are nothing except the faintest of memories. All is overturned and transformed into something wholly unrecognizable. Mounds of dead are monuments that stare into the abyss that have fallen as a burial shroud down into this mortal plane. 

Demons that were freed are chased away and imprisoned within that which they unleashed upon innocents who have committed no sin. Their jailer and executioner is a queen beyond parallel or equal in any realm that has ever existed. The flute of gold fire placed upon her flawless  lips encircles the storm illuminating the very primordial darkness beneath the world. Monstrous forms are shackled with manacles that burn them away removing all that they have done. Each one that falls restores some stolen aspect of this place. Shattered metropolises ascend whole from the battered and broken landscape. Glory is stripped from the gods who were so content to watch as this obliteration took place. All of their might, wisdom, honor, and worshippers are given to this most majestic embodiment of the divine. Forevermore she will rule as the composer and singer of all of creation.