Nathrangking

Poem # 49

Price

Mountains heave their shoulders upward roaring in rage sending their fiery words into the heights where clouds deeper than the abyss obscure them. Rivers gouge gorges into the earth as even gods fall away at the approach of the molten ocean pulled from the burning soul of this accursed place. Vulcan lacks the power to chain fury that peels the world back so that pestilence can turn bones into nothing more than shattered fragments. Warriors are lit aflame; their armor is slag pools that bathe Ceres and bring out screams that race tirelessly across the whole of humanity’s world. Cities simply vanish into unending darkness their inhabitants consumed instantly. Nothing remains, but the blazing earth and shroud of pitch that specters pull over a universe that is only a husk. Not even the carrion survive in a world devoid even of gods whose influence while at times unfelt held together the sundered cosmos.

Beyond all of the death and above pillars of a temple of death that rises from carnage incarnate a single jewel on high glows. It rushes downward and with a single blow slashes through the haze and solemn silence. A clarinet of diamond that radiates with a blinding inner power sounds from the midst of a star given the flowing form of flesh. Eyes alight gaze about as music chases choking clouds into oblivion. Each note turns back the flow of time itself, restoring the whole of existence to what it was before if slightly more than it had been. Mortals and immortals once lost now erupt from the aether as though they had not widowed kingdoms. Crowns crumble from the heads of those who rise at the hand of a tune more divine than those who had demanded worship and offered little in return. Forests of both wood and stone teem again as the song never dies or slows. She who plays weaves art that envious primordials admire from below as they too for all time shall know the cost of rule.