Ancient Conquerer - An Anariarch Tale

Ancient Conquerer - An Anariarch Tale

If ever there was a time, to put in writ these thoughts of mine, now is the hour, for mine enemies flee and cower; With this sign I have conquered. Truth and musings, this I speak, from tongue once wicked, now humble, thus, meek. With ancient bread, and simple wine, I partake this of mine this night. And should my soul decide, this very night to take deep flight, I shall travel very far, and bring glad tidings; there is no need to spar. My pen is gentle by eerie light, caressed by a moon lit star, I shall write great words, with strength and might.

Of the road behind, I speak in solemn verse; the thought of it does fully immerse. Myself, I am marked and scarred, wounded, yet still I march on. I was not always this brave, it was not always that my head looked above. Often, I would be found in the Pit, blacken as Oil, crying out as a misfit; truly I say. The demons would sometimes win the day. Yet night and sleep does not end the road; dreams as whispers would come, and speak in notes, heresy to some. Yet I would not give in, an ancient curse stirred within. And from this do I draw strength, as mighty as the Pen on Parchment divine. Bound by words, I quaked and trembled; harried by images I tossed and turned; even sleep escaped my being, I could not believe what I was seeing. For within those days and nights, the blossom Crown did then reveal, my humble power, if such a thing could be found.

I spent those days, wallowed in despair, fighting phantoms, wisps, and enemies of old. Of my own make was my fate, I see this now. I would not have chosen otherwise, given song to sing anew, even through the frowns and tears; beyond my hopes and fears. Thus do I have a Psalm, to sing and dance, and tell story bound. By book and journal, I slowly drew, my Sword eternal, my Pen now rent from clouds and sky. I swore that I could fly.

With ease and skill, the words now flow; between other chores, I write this verse. Now my enemies are few, though their numbers grown. I name them few, for now they are weak, in the face of what I’ve become. Strong, mighty, and my steps ‘voke Earthquakes, though slender is my size; Greatly won was the prize. I played the game, a game of chance and luck, my Angels found me fair, and granted me full boons; I did not have to lift an arm, I was free from all harm. With cache and plenty, I now bask, my foes are jealous of my flask. Filled with wine, and oft’ a whiskey brew, I smoke fine herb, much to their askew. My Chariot, of golden make, My horse, of Kingly stock; now it is I who mock. They have laughed at my expense, no longer; though they’re stubborn, its for the best. Their envy will eat their flesh, rend and plague, all at my behest. Though I am hounded by questions still, at least now, I am free to think and thrive, they will all, eventually, die.

So I sit atop this perch, scribbling madness with my fellows; who knew many other bellow. They cry for vengeance, they cry for freedom. I am now with plenty; I smile as our foes are broken by the lash of time and sloth, truly, they are not cut from fine cloth.

Thus do I begin. To writ a new verse throughout this course. I am mighty and unconquerable. I am as I will;

I am the Master of my fate.

I am the Captain of my soul.