The Flare in the Sky


So our Windmill set off,

Deep in the Land,

To the gold-embossed temples

Of the Brass Hand.

Brass, Hell’s steward,

Hungry and callous,

The gray-faced croupier,

Of duplicitous malice.

She arrived by pale vaults,

Where Brass held Hell’s riches,

The treasures of lusters,

Gluttons and witches.

Brass then peered down,

Past aureate towers,

Down to our Windmill,

Who sat still and cowered.

“Why do you hide?”

The Brass Hand did ask,

“Do you attempt to insult me

And dishonor the Mask?”

The Windmill spoke softly,

In eloquent prose,

And, as I assure you,

Did bud a near rose.

“I seek your dear counsel,

My Brass of the Mask

I seek not offend you,

But I simply must bask.

And if it not wrong you,

I’ve a question to ask.

I beseech that ye aid me,

In this most difficult task.”

The Brass Hand did grin,

As pride was his sin,

He shivered and shimmered,

And held high his chin.

“It’s been too long an era,

Since I’ve danced in sweet tribute.

So if ye need aid,

I’m obliged to contribute.”

The glowing still grew, the fires persisted

And, as all do know,

It had not once been resisted.

“I beg ye, flare in the sky,

To draw in these lands beyond my eye,

To reach the many whom I could not try”

The Mask made no voice, but affirmed in its way.

As it still shines out in the Hells to this day.

The End

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