Mourning Glory

A melancholy limerick

Glory stood in evening grey, warmed by thoughts of old,

Of chronicles and legacies, and epics left untold,

Of Heroes’ lore,

And Legends’ wars,

The convictions of the Bold:

A warrior pitted against his foes, advancing, set and stark,

A sanguine touch, a steel tattoo, a brilliant, flaming arc,

Reminds him then,

“Now comes my end”,

And he bellows against the dark.

A lady clasped in iron hands, filled with lust and hate,

She spies her lover, riding hard, racing against their fate,

With jagged lance,

But little chance,

Lest he’s come for her too late.

A Legend leads a company of a hundred violent men,

Through the bloodied, screaming mobs of a deadly, savage glen.

A missing sword,

A raging horde,

And the Legend advances again.

Tears of rebel tragedy burn in Glory’s eyes,

And she recollects a dire truth: a Hero always dies.

“Will none ascend,

Embrace their end,

Though it’s time for them to rise?”

A coward watches, simpering, as evil men succeed,

He will not answer Glory’s call, though he clearly sees the need,

“Let someone come,

For I am done,

I cannot do great deeds.”

No more Legends, dread and hale, answer Glory’s call.

A thousand cravens, clamoring, and every one enthralled,

By cowardice,

And avarice, 

And the fear that they should fall.

No more in dazzling raiment, no more in stunning lace,

Glory, now tragic silence, a veil before her face,

Diminishing, 

Then finishing,

As she passes from men’s embrace.