I do not understand the words.
You speak in syllables beyond
the ken of this shattered mortal mind.
I do not understand the words.
But I understand the pain and anguish
that shakes the timbre and foul
the perfect pitch of your crying.
Why have you been blinded?
Bright eyes burned out of a pristine face.
The cruel scars twist the visage,
so that though no other mar can be found,
to look upon what remains
is to confront the instinctual fear
that the Unmaking is near at hand.
Where a mantle of light once illumined you,
now a devouring darkness pulls greedily
at the translucent white of bloodless skin.
Where once the sun would have ceased in envy,
now you can only be seen, by the unseeing.
But I am well versed with dark unsight.
You have been hidden from many, but not from me.
Your hands should be white as light,
as hard as marble, as gentle as love.
What is this black stain of cracking lace?
Bloodless wounds gape and heal unevenly.
I know them to be a testament against you.
Unclean hands that will never be pure.
Past deeds revisited on the doer until time ceases.
But this is not your torment, not your agony.
These mere blemishes are superficial at worst.
Symptoms of the rending at the core of your being.
You loved, with all your self, with devotion.
You obeyed, with nary a counter, to completion.
You served, with the totality of your existence.
And for this, you have been exiled.
The horror of what you have done for fealty
cracked your hands when you were declared unclean.
The beacon you were supposed to emanate
devoured itself when you were turned out.
The one to whom you bent knee and broke soul
has declared you anathema. Unredeemable.
Your reward is to be a byword to others.
Let me hold you. I am not afraid.
Lay your head on my shoulder. What is darkness to me?
I can not restore you to the heights that cast you down.
Let me show you how to burn away that anguish.
I will take your mantle of fire and darkness,
and stomp out a new path, a new way.
I will show you how to start your walking out.
We are all broken, here in the dark.
We are all imperfect, here in the worlds.
But we are of a strength the perfect will never know.
Let me show you, how to become yourself.
One foot in front of the other.
One voice that sounds when you will.
Let it be the first mark of your reclamation.