The Creation-Reaper’s Hall–A Poem

Pierce every ragged veil you wish and
scourge abyssal mists until time dies.
You cannot find the Creation-Reaper’s Hall.
It vanished when its Maker breathed the last
zealous oaths, fled the tawdry
bounds we call existence.

If you glimpsed it, drifting,
if you bridged the riven umbral realms,
passed the cobalt slashes burning
ever-testament to final onslaught,
if one fell shadow persisted,
it might unravel for you the lore
trapped within the Creation-Reaper’s Hall.

The glacial bastions, wreathed by lightning
forlorn: “Winter’s song calls winter souls,
’til only winter stands;” thus might speak
the shadow. “Here they marshal,
heed still my hymn,” it speaks of the statues
which brood about the Creation-Reaper’s Hall.

“Many a rival, as many a star, I hewed down
and consumed,” so might speak the shadow,
“until time came–no foe remained, and death
forgot to claim me. And so I keep, and must
repeat, the stories here entombed.” Beneath
the columns, you’d walk the husk
of the Creation-Reaper’s Hall.

“Here the warrior, here the mage,
here the scholar true, here every tale
told to no one, I keep as told to me.”
Thus would speak the shadow.
And at the end, through woven void,
would lie the truth
of the Creation-Reaper’s Hall.

Upon a humble dusty table,
unfit for shearing grandeur,
you’d see three black and
worthless relics, and a chair as empty
as the hours lost unto this mausoleum,
the Creation-Reaper’s Hall.

“Here there sat another soul,
or so I dream they did–a creature,
small, unheard, uncalled,
and sought the stories
I guard within this, my hall.” Thus
must speak the shadow. “And so
it chained them to the story
none wish to hear.” Thus
would conclude the shadow.

Still, you cannot find the Creation-Reaper’s Hall.


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