The Forgotten

If I could see the ancient words that demon sung
If I could feel the peeling of the bell which that day was rung
Perhaps a life of peace I may that day have sought
But only pain did I find that such music wrought.

I heard it once, these notes which floated from the sky,
And never again did beauty come to my wandering eye.
At the altar, I sought the bringer of that tone,
Finding ash and bone.
It was as though a final word, an accursed decree
That to this day haunts the heart of me.
In my soul, I search to recall something like a line
From that song, hideously divine.

My mind disbands, my spirit wilts—like a dying rose
And though I’m dead, I will not rest—I will not decompose
Until I hear, or perhaps recall, the song that day was sung
A hymn to all doomed to die so young.
The thunder crash of sight and sound oh so sweetly played
A eulogy, a last rite for a world that had decayed.
A labyrinth of pain in a chorus so soft upon the lyre
From hands of gold that set my soul afire.
Like storms upon the sea, and flame within the trees,
Blood in the veins of laurel wreathes that freeze,
As though an angel drowning in the cries of Hell,
Casting its tormenting spell
The song struck my unworthy ears
And so I lived in a realm of tears
Wandering soul where I no longer did belong
Seeking in vain, one last time, to hear but one note of that song.

The years were long, the time was spent
I grew old , withered and bent.
I longed for the song, forgot my birthright and my name
And there was no respite when the Reaper came.
I wander now, I whimper and I crawl;
Seek in vain the demon’s song one day to recall.
Through blood and pain, the stench of myrrh and rot
This is the curse, this is the “life” the demon’s chorus brought.

© 2020 Marten Hoyle