By William Eichler
There isn’t much left of us nowadays -
little more than stones, scattered at the feet
of those who pretend to follow.
I have to admit, though, there is a certain…
tenacity to them, but greatness still seems to be
just out of reach.
I suppose our time had to come at some point.
Yet they insist on keeping us alive.
Latching us to a ghost of immortality,
and mutating us to fit their needs.
They’ve made me a villain now.
A dark lord ruling over the damned
in the darkness below them.
I cannot truly blame them for it, but
was I truly so cruel?
But never cruel.
When the Thracian boy came to me,
I gave him a choice.
Offered him a deal.
His beloved could have been his,
had he just listened.
Is it my fault he doubted me?
He looked back that day and wept,
and I wept with him.
I knew his pain,
I knew the emptiness that would be left
within him. But I gave him his chance,
and he still proved so fond of folly.
If only he had won.
Perhaps I’d have been given
a kinder light.