The Warrior, The Hand and The Blade

Dark, scarred and worn,
shapeless without edge or point,
hanging unsuspended in a gauntleted fist,
poised to pierce the heart of the weary,
the end, the beginning, upon its chest,
the Blade threatens death,
the living death already.

The Blade waxes and wanes
with and without reason,
it would offer no respite, no peace.
It heard no lamentation or offering.
It simply was, and allowed to be,
when it willed and when it did not,
the weary suffered it silently,
the soul within it would rot.

The Gates of Hell would allow no such beast
Its terror stole the Devil's voice,
and laid bare the Angels' weakness.
The Blade was invisible yet shimmered
and here it was, waiting for its fate.
Only in that way could its wrath be unleashed.
It only needed to be.

It is written the Hand has no soul.
chooses not to end of the Warriors torment,
the weary but another unpierced and tortured life
in the way of path of the Blade,
standing tall and mighty.
The Blade has no mind of its own,
but know this is true:
it is wielded with intent,
the Hand that guides is cruel.

The soulless Hand and Blade know what they are.
In falling the Blade banishes those that resist.
In hanging it brings unbearable pain.
For the Hand and Blade that is,
there was never any other way.

No one tells of the sword,
the unwavering Hand and Blade.
One never knows until it is upon you,
its breath upon your neck.
Never the words of awareness,
lest one's own fate fall beneath,
the curse itself upon you,
for having spoke its name.

A moment, then the Warrior was prey.
The battle was ended before it began.
The living killed by the dead,
the dying undying at Hand.
The weary's unbearable suffering
would have no name, no face, and no end.
In living the Warrior is dying,
no where nary a friend.

There are moments the Warrior surrenders
gives way to the pain, loneliness, and despair,
the fear of remorse for being the fool
for seeing a flame when none was there,
ended by a significant insignificant death,
or worse still the peril of ignobility.
In that precise moment
the Warrior is wont to grab the Blade
and pierce the weary’s troubled heart,
to bring an ending to an end.
It is death without dying,
and the weary dies in shame.

Was it for lack of courage?
Was it for love of others?
Was it duty and obligation?
Was it for hope of injustice redeemed,
to be released from this wantonness,
given purpose, and righteousness,
that the Warrior cannot end this itself,
thrust its spine deep to the Blade?

The battle was never to be won.
Betrayal laid the Warrior beneath the Blade,
not for a weakness or a failure,
but for treachery and spite,
or simply as the path of least resistance,
the Blade is always right.
This was not the battle entered
but it was the one to fight.

It matters not to the Blade,
to wait, to fall.
It has no conscience to dwell,
no mind to waiver.
It is a hanging sword,
it hangs or it falls.
It takes no pride in punishment,
though a hate there prevails.

But to the lone Warrior
who wants to live,
without the pain.
Fall, or leave me be!
End this unjust game!
This is not my war,
and yet you bring this to bear!
Here I am where I have found myself,
not where I intended to go but where I be.
A battle to be fought,
If only on one knee.

The Warrior cries and exhorts to no avail,
had I known that this is how it would be,
that first step would never be taken,
this path was never free.
Not for lack of faith or understanding,
but in knowing that this is not the way.
I would have ended my suffering
by letting everything be.
But that is not my nature,
that is not my creed.
This ending was inevitable.
I must let it be.

The Warrior's purpose is not to die
it is to fight for good and right,
but in the fighting there will be death and destruction.
Death here is not noble nor grand,
it is silent and unseen.
It serves no purpose, nothing is gained,
and all is lost, always,
a wasted death it seems.
No one wins, there is no victor,
but the Hand on the Blade surviving
will write the weary Warriors story.
No one knows the weary is fighting,
no one knows its end is near,
in silence if goes away from us
and the weary dies unawares.
No one knows the story told
is a lie.

The Warrior walks among the living,
goes about without the face of fear,
though the darkness that swaths its heart
bends any light from within
to that of duty, and honor.
No sign of the torment,
no sign of the Blade.
The Warrior continues,
dying along the way.

And so the weary,
tears of undeserved fate upon it,
waits for the fall of the Blade
or the courage to rise up upon it,
to end the pain, the suffering,
the loneliness of having failed,
the despair for being unseen,
and the deep sadness of leaving.

In the dying of the weary, the others die too,
for the Warrior is loved and cherished,
but in loving revealed naught.
Solace is never found when the Blade falls,
the weary no longer there.
In the hanging it stole life and living,
in falling it ended life
and brought grief.
In the end all left standing,
in utter disbelief.

When the Warrior’s blood dries,
the last breath softly sings,
the sudden silence stills the heart,
will they see the Hand and Blade,
naked and invisible, dripping with blood,
yet in the end they will walk away.
There is nothing left to be done here,
but to grieve,
and remember,
the dead.

The Last Symphony

The turn in the road came up slowly, gracefully, with the forest opening in front of him, a welcoming parting that drew him in deeper and deeper into his thoughts. It was silent, not even the hum of the road, nor the whistle of the wind breaking through. But the rain… he realized he could hear the rain. For a moment he thought this was a dream, he was dreaming, mostly because it was far more peaceful than it felt like it should be. He had been here before. He knew this music. He knew how it came in, how it strutted and how it ended. It was not his favorite symphony, but he knew it like the back of his soul.

He started the piece knowing it would arouse the audience, get them whispering to themselves, and he wanted to see what would happen. In the corner of his mind was a violin speaking softly to let it go, play this bit sotto voce. It went pretty much as expected, following the music he had seen written when they first met, dashing his hopes for a different composition as the new movement unfolded. He knew the crescendo would come, and the longer the rest after the first bar, the more spectacular he expected the music to return. He was prepared for it, waiting unconsciously for it, and when the music came back after some time, it arrived as an old worn-out unwelcome friend. The feeling that it needed anything from him passed quickly now that he was older, more experienced, and more familiar with this piece. He could let it go. He was more melancholy than upset, saddened that the music had continued as he knew it, while played in a different time and place it was turning out exactly the same. He wanted to believe it would be different this time. But knowing this piece and the nature of conductors and hearing the expected phrase rather than the hopefully awaited one, he knew how this was going to play out. Emotionally he was already putting his stuff in a box. He was a bit surprised to hear that particular voice, but it made perfect sense once heard. He had smiled sadly on hearing it, not the notes he had hoped for, but what he knew would come. The conductor lacked imagination but knew the notes well, played them expertly. The audience would swoon. Same tune, different venue, just as upsetting, maybe, and now, disappointing. And he conducted with the vigor of a man impressing himself impressing others.

The forest enveloped him as he drove on, giving him a sense of peace and quiet that small calming spaces can offer. Part of him still felt vulnerable, but maybe knowing the rest of how it would play out made it easier now that he knew the piece would play out unchanged. He would never understand how the same tragic compositions kept showing up in different places playing the same notes, singing in the same key, while he expected and hoped for seomthing more serene. The conductor had brought forth the usual highlights that were designed to inspire awe, to seize the narrative, to cheerlead and console, while between the chords the diva was screaming at him, “Sit. Down.” The shepherd was warning the wolf to stop eating the sheep, and letting the wolf know he was not part of the pack for having done so but could be if he let the sheep be, like all the others. But he was a wolf, the shepherd feared this, and when they first crossed paths, he had made it clear the wolf would behave for the piece was already written, the show had already begun. But the wolf did not, could not, for he was a wolf. The shepherd’s plan was already orchestrated and composed; he had said as much. And now he had eaten a sheep. Perhaps, the wolf wondered, if he left the sheep alone now that the first movement passed, the shepherd would leave him be, the piece would play on, and no one would notice a broken string, a split reed, a sad wolf.

He lost himself in the drive, letting the rain wash the music, the melancholy away, letting the experience drift further behind him. Soon enough he would see if the expected coda would play, or if in letting it play in silence as it was the music would continue to flow around him, leaving him alone, sitting, watching, not eating the sheep. But he is a wolf, and wolves do wolf things, already there was growling. But this was a tired wolf, and being at the edge of the herd was better than having no herd at all. He awaited the next movement with great anticipation, rooting for the wolf who would wear sheep’s clothing, that he might console himself and follow docilely. Would he be less of a wolf for not straying from the music and for following the unimaginative conductor, he wondered? So many wolves before had managed to let the piece play out, so too could he. Play his part, add to the chorus without distinction without losing himself in it, let go of being a wolf. It would not be his music, but to an old wolf, maybe this no longer mattered. The edge of the herd then, second chair is still in the orchestra. It was a good orchestra, even now.

He decided to drive on through the rain, and see how this would play out, if he simply listened, played his part, and never looked the shepherd in the eye again. Orchestras and conductors want to be the sort that surround themselves with wolves but become upset when the wolves eat their sheep.

He reminded himself that in the end, the conductor always leaves… and he didn't like eating sheep anyway.