At_Last

Rival crops Of rage and wrath Thrive beside the many paths

Of wayward pilgrims come and gone, Their hymns and hopes withdrawn,

As if insects shooed away Quick to their decay.

Do you think they ever plied Their fire to the paling sky?

Who were they Or, Who am I?

Apathetic, Undirected, Crossing pastures, unaffected, Do I dim and fade to gray? Which wretched trail bids me away? But thrust my sword into this rock Inscribing prayers that fiends would mock Who pulls this blade may yet be king Of things that I could never dream.

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