Tear the Sky Asunder

by Ice Star

Tribal Disharmony

Through a veil of snow, there is a land that has become its own demise—
Past the teeth of mountains is a valley barren and cold—
Where all knowledge and truth has been lost to corrupted hearts and ignorant minds.

Three races divided by lines of blood know nothing of what has, is, or ever will be.
The false glitter of gold and the products of all their lies — which are colder than the bite of a fatal wind — make up all the squaller that they see.

In their dying small ditch of a world feud after feud — all so needlessly petty — is the shovel which they use to dig their own graves.
For in this fleeting meaninglessness, when your neighbor is your enemy, and you are unknowingly your own, and all is just another gaunt and pestilence-eaten face, what could there be to save?

Vile tongues that have never spoken anything but the filthiest gossip and lies.
There is no Honesty
The slightest compassion, a concept known to none, where the cruelty of such a land could freeze the sun.
There is no Kindness
Where only greed seduces simple minds, charity will never ring out with any clarity in a land where no mortals can help themselves.
There is no Generosity.
Only the howls of the wind can be heard where any semblance of happiness is lacking, for it is but another thing to be sold through dishonest bargain.
There is no Laughter.
Where it isn't a choice to blindly obey and conformity is held as the only way, the lines that mark each fragile paper individual are worn to an indistinguishable whole. All obligation is forced, all bonds are false.
There is no Loyalty.
All are pulled with invisible strings that guide each equine puppet to its crown so they might betray each other more efficiently, wrong one another more patriotically, and nod on cue with yet another blind bow from identical figures. They clutter a world marked with only rags and riches. How would these beings — the true living dead — ever know Harmony?
This is where each leaf is a waste as the ink dribbles on to chronicle each glorified misdeed. No knowledge can be taught in such an artless and false world, a mere dot of spilled blood on every undrawn map of a greater, unknown whole.
Thus there is no Magic.

Harmony and Love are but myths in a godless waste. All is equal suffering and order reigns three times over in a play where no masks are needed. Few have any face to show.

Author's Note:

A tale of the Iceverse. You don't need to read any other stories to understand this one.

Comments

[Gingerquill]

You sir, are a poet of remarkable talent. This is going straight into my favourites shelf :)
And I think you deserve a follow. Not many folk are talented and brave enough to post an entire story in the form of a poem.