Burning embers lay
in the heart
of the town's torch,
A massive tower
pierced shadow
with its scorch.
A town of vice and pain,
Of lies and strain,
Bellow was its name,
And darkness was its claim to fame.
In the shallow hall
of Saint Gregory's church,
A demonic painting
on the wall
did perch.
Though just a painting
in sight alone,
The evil within
would show the town sins
which they never atoned.
Their eyes filled with horror,
and their hearts fled from their souls.
The very mention of sin
drove the people
to find new goals.
“THEY ARE THE SINNER! I SAW HIM CHEAT ON HIS WIFE!”
They would say
as they slayed the man
whose heart filled with strife.
“ I AM AT NO FAULT OF MINE OWN;
IT WAS THE CHILD;
THE DEVIL MADE ME KILL!”
They blamed the lame,
the insane,
and the ill.
Nothing was satisfactory;
they had to know
they were sinless.
For the Demon in the painting
was simply monstrous.
One day,
upon the break of twilight,
A soldier came to town,
an infamous, unsightly blight.
He was as skinny as a twig,
though his arms were like branches.
His neck hunched out,
and his sleeves were covered in patches.
His dented armor shined
with a dark, smoky gray,
The same to his hair,
which flowed down
like thin grape vines in May.
A squarish helmet
sat loosely
upon his bony head.
And one might ask,
“What's behind his shiny mask?”
Well, it's an unsightly look,
and many would say
he looked dead,
With a single eye
in the middle
of where his face should be,
And no tongue
to taste the salty sea,
Nor ears
for the chirping of the robin.
Truly, he was a soul
deeply pained
and forgotten.
But that did not distract his quest,
For he would not rest till he smote the darkness
from the world’s chest.
Many in the town
saw this knight
as a salutation to their problem,
So, they ushered him
to the center of the town,
showing him their unlit torch column.
They explained,
“DEAR KNIGHT, WE BEG OF THEE TO RELIGHT!
OUR HOMES HAVE EMPTIED AND OUR TRUST HAS WANED.
WE KNOW THAT IT'S THE DEMON TO BLAME,
BUT NONE ARE BRAVE ENOUGH TO STOP IT.”
The words fell beside the soldier;
he knew not the tongue of man,
For he only communicated
through writing
and sleight of hand.
The villagers were puzzled
at his seemingly stern gaze.
As he pulled out a leather notebook,
labeled with the name P.R. Paze.
He began writing,
sloppily though,
The words in his head,
Stolen story; please report.
even if his handwriting was so-so.
He wrote, “I have no voice nor hearing;
please bring me to your lord,
much is to be discussed.”
He took off his helmet,
much to the people’s disgust.
“ANOTHER DEMON, THIS ONE IN DISGUISE!”
A farmer man
began to rise,
And in his ignorance
he surmised that he would kill
the knight with one eye.
He charged the soldier
with the rage of a bull, but swiftly he fell
as the knight drew his tool.
The people looked in shock
as before them lay the body
of a man who mere minutes ago was breathing.
Now he did not,
for his body was too busy bleeding.
The knight, now enraged,
pointed to a young lad
in the middle of the crowd.
He pointed at the page
and made the boy read aloud,
“I am a knight of no evil,
nor a devil to curse.
I am but a man,
not a product of a villain's plan.
I come to help
and to slay the things which bind you.
So do not be afraid,
for I am human too.”
The Townsfolk brought him
to the town hall,
Where he came upon the mayor,
Garson Mall.
Though communication was difficult,
The knight now knew
where to look
for this item of the occult.
So, travel he did
to the top of town’s hill,
Past the bakery,
Shops, and mill.
He came face to face
with an old cathedral,
The walls disgraced
with bones and a horse skull.
This holy place
had seen better days,
But hopefully the knight
could bring back the godly rays.
Entering into the blasphemous church,
He saw a painting of a devil,
skin like birch.
As he wandered closer,
whispers seemed to enter his mind,
Not so auditorily,
but like a voice in your head, unkind.
“THEY SUFFERED WHEN YOU STRUCK THEM;
YOUR WARS WERE FOR NOT.
YOU ARE NO KNIGHT OF HONOR;
I SEE RIGHT THROUGH YOUR PLOT!
BUT I INVITE YOU TO TRY, DEAR SOLDIER.
KILL THE DEMON
WHO TEMPTS
THE YOUNG AND OLDER.
MAY YOU BURN LIKE THE SKIN ON MY BONES.
WHEN I CUT YOU DOWN,
LET THIS VALLEY BE FILLED
WITH YOUR SCREAMS AND MOANS!”
Suddenly, the devil jumped from the painting,
slashing the knight.
But with confidence
and without fear or fright,
He stood his ground
from this devilish hound.
It leaped towards him
like a lion to prey,
But for this demon,
there was hell to pay.
He lunged his blade into its head,
filling it with light.
He bled that devil
and pierced its body
with all his might.
The painting lit on fire,
as all the monster’s spite and err
left his mouth, screaming curses
at the top of his lungs.
But the knight could not hear
a single of these tongues.
After the battle had ended
and the air went still,
He brought down the body
of his fresh kill.
The people rejoiced
and looked to their torch
to find its fire,
But only ash and soot
remained upon the pyre.
“THE TORCH SHOULD HAVE BEEN LIT!”
They screamed in panic.
“THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!
YOU SAID YOU'D SAVE US!
YOU HYPOCRITE!”
The people chanted and yelled;
they wanted his head.
But this made the knight realize
there was a loose thread.
The demon truly harbored
no power over these folks.
They brought this
and snuffed their torch,
feeding on its lying yolks.
He walked towards the end of town
but stood at the edge
and signed to them.
And while they did not understand,
their fates were grim.
“As long as you keep a lie
in your heart and mind,
that torch will never light.
Your towns and your souls
have been cast
into eternal night.
And while you weep
your final tear,
Remember these words were signed
by the fallen knight, Perrameir.”
So never again
was he seen
in the town of Bellow,
For now it’s a pile of rubble
and broken hearts,
not one woman or fellow.
But one thing remains
in the middle of the town,
pointing towards the sky:
The torch is ever empty,
forever left to die.
