The Weyfarer

​The night was dark and misty
Nary a star above my head
The streets were bare and silent now
The cobbles locked in quiet peace
Save me, the wand’ring poet
 
Upon me then came a soothsayer
Dark and clad in rags of green
He bade me listen to his tale
A story fit for kings and gods
And me, the wand’ring poet
 
I had no choice and sat we did
Upon a nearby crate of fruit
He took my hand and placed it
Against a book of velvet blue
Just me, the wand’ring poet
 
He told me open up my mind
And hear the song from long ago
A song of ancient tongues afar
From beyond our time and space
Far from me, the wand’ring poet
 
I rolled my eyes, a skeptic then
As he spoke of boiling flame
From fissures deep beneath the ground
And beings from the sky above
Skeptic me, the wand’ring poet
 
He sensed my disapproval
And changed his tone of voice
Angry now, he chastised me
For doubting his story’s veracity
Doubting Thomas, the wand’ring poet
 
He demanded then I seek the sky
The blanket black surrounding us
And stare into the nameless void
The void where creatures big and small
Await me, the wand’ring poet
 
I thought to leave then, tired
A weight of fatigue upon me
His words still rang inside my head
The frantic begging for me to see
Begging me, the wand’ring poet
 
Such a foolish man, I thought
To speak of fire and monsters
When never has there been proof
That either would exist
I laughed, the wand’ring poet
 
He told me sit and stay awhile
To listen, please, to what he said,
To save my soul from horrors yet
And free myself from fate’s embrace
Ridiculous, the wand’ring poet
 
I ignored him and stood up,
Keen to resume my nightly stroll
He grasped my arm and I could feel
The tension in his hands
Restrained, the wand’ring poet
 
Angered, I ripped my arm away
And shoved him back onto the ground
How dare he touch me, presuming
That I would welcome it?
The haughty, wand’ring poet
 
And as he sprawled upon the street
He looked at me with piercing eyes
Of cloudy blue and brilliant green
A look of familiarity
He knew the wand’ring poet
 
He tried to speak, I silenced him
I did not want to hear his mewls
I took my leave and heard him cry
“You stupid, blind, impetuous fool!”
Cursing me, the wand’ring poet
 
I turned a corner, heading home
Just down an alley I always trod
I stopped then, frozen, as I saw
A man, I thought, all dressed in black
Gazing at me, the wand’ring poet
 
He stretched out a hand, spindly and thin
And beckoned me to join him
As if by magic, I complied
I stepped into the alley
Terrified, the wand’ring poet
 
As I entered, there was a sound
Of grinding teeth and rending flesh
The alley closed behind me then
Sealing me away from the world
Alone now, the wand’ring poet
 
The bricks and stone of the alley
Were gone, replaced by nothing clear
Just swirling colors, spirals
Of things unseen and barely seen
Confusing me, the wand’ring poet
 
The man walked toward me
And I saw he towered high above me
A monument to shaky skin
And misshapen bones and twisted hands
Above me, the wand’ring poet
 
He placed a hand upon my shoulder
I felt the cracking of his joints
And then a seizing pain
As he clenched down to the marrow
The bone of me, the wand’ring poet
 
 I cried in agony as he lifted me
Up to his gnarled face
A mass of scars and melted flesh
A monument to damned excess
Holding me, the wand’ring poet
 
He spoke at me, with acid breath
Of lack of faith and belief
He would show me then
He declared with ringing voice
Me, the wand’ring poet
 
He said he was the Weyfarer
To give to those the knowledge needed
To see the universe as it is
No bells and whistles or tricks
And now me, the wand’ring poet
 
He turned and walked
Still holding me
Into a coal-black hole
Inside which I could see nothing
Blind me, the wand’ring poet
 
On the other side I saw
A brilliance far beyond my brain
A striking purple-bluish-green
And eyes of multifarity
Stared at me, the wand’ring poet
 
I heard the voice inside my head
All ringing, howling, screeching noise
It spoke to me of things to come
Of lakes of boiling pitch in which
I’d drown, the wand’ring poet
 
Tears ran down as I struggled
Held aloft by silent hands
As prophecies from far beyond
Were forced into the head
Of a sobbing, wand’ring poet
 
I saw my family in ages
Twisted, wrinkled mannequins
And bleeding hearts and weeping sores
I could not turn away
A prisoner, the wand’ring poet
 
Wars and terror
Bombs and guns
And spoiled flesh upon a field
All this in front of me
The captive, wand’ring poet
 
I begged him then,
The Weyfarer,
To take me far away from here
He shook his head and refused me
A desperate, wand’ring poet
 
He told me that I had to see
To be afraid and understand
That worlds beyond what I had known
Existed, waiting, for escape
A student, the wand’ring poet
 
I was tasked then by the void
To spread the word and tell the tale
Of what I had seen and what was to come
To wander and to minister
The servant, wand’ring poet
 
The Weyfarer, then, cast me out
Hurling me from blackness
Before I left, two parting gifts
That I had seen before
Irony, thy wand’ring poet
 
Upon the cobbled stone I kneeled
Recovering from my ordeal
I clad myself in rags of green
And held the book of velvet blue
A prophet, wand’ring poet
 
And thus began my walk of hate
Spreading the word that no-one heard
To be kicked and spat upon
Ignored and despised by all the world
The outcast, wand’ring poet
 
And then one night so different
From the thousand nights I felt before
A strange familiarity
Sank into me and gave me fear
The curious, wand’ring poet
 
I looked ahead of me and saw
A sight I dreaded but expected
Myself, a-wandering, content
So unaware of what was to come
The haughty, wand’ring poet
 
The night was dark and misty
Nary a star above my head
The streets were bare and silent now
The cobbles locked in quiet peace
Save him, the wand’ring poet
 
I tried to speak to tell him
Of the things that he would see
To walk away and not go home
To go but elsewhere, not alone
Ignored me, the wand’ring poet
 
So now I sit, a mindless wreck
Engulfed by fear and prickling hate
Aware that nothing ere can change
Lost in among the tides of fate
Is me, the damn-ed poet.