prisoner of the mountain

I was dashing off a few quick emails to old friends, when a line I scribed to my former lover and continuing friend, Brigit, caught my whim and the moment, so I built a poem around it. With your kind indulgence...

It is lonely, up on Olympus, this time every year.
The skies are grey, but a mystical, crystal clear
and I can see Valhalla, just o'er to the East,
hear the echoes in the valleys of some Asgardian feast.

Bast has passed into the West, to fill her barren bed,
Valkyries and mythic beasts have played their part, then fled.
The waters run in rivers known for stealing mortal thought,
to spill across the splintered stones that rose aloft for naught.

The marble, cold beneath his feet, the throne fits none too well,
an aging back the could attack the legions all of Hell,
but carries now not sword nor shield nor banner to parade
to mark the line where love divine unleashed a serenade.

In Golden Hearts, in fits and starts, the man recalls it all
and wonders how he found himself entombed within this hall.
Immortal prayers and well-worn stairs ascend to silent cell,
a tower of bleached ivory, to wear as hermit's shell.

The frescoes do not listen to him when he weeps and roars.
Chosen guardians, they are unmoved by mercy he implores
to strike him down or split the walls that he may slip away
and promise ne'er to e'er again dare to come this way.

But ancient walls have stood too long and well they keep their place
to serve as mock of timeless clock in ringing his disgrace.
He binds his hands in iron bands and strikes against the stone
to one day reach the shadowed breach and, for his sins, atone.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.