Rites Of Separation
Prayers of summoning, such greatness, yet empty
As the brook starved of the river, flowing past care.
The fires of his rite incanted smouldering ashes beyond the horizon,
So that Angelroth trembled, the King's mountains shivered,
And his streams froze in the dark sunlight; cataracts cascaded into
Arcs of ice. The King pondered not, neither did his spirit,
As streams of light – nay, powers vaster – swirled into
His damned cauldron…and all things alive paused and peered
At the King who would assume Heaven, should the mantle slip
And fall, what then?
The hand waved once – soft was the rustle – and that great congregation
Of force lay becalmed…unable to rage at its captor, and all races
As one, felt something had left them: as if good had departed
On the reigns of evil, in measures equal and terrifying. Strangely vacant
Stood domains, frozen in an instant of light. The cry paused, the tears hung,
And the echoes did not collide with the mountains.
An infinite silence within a sliver of time, no more. And then –
Curses of might, and blessings of potency swept forth, as that half-demon,
Part-angel of energy split with a groan: every creature twitched
In a wrenching howl of pain...
The King watched in horror, as clouds of pure hate coursed through
The skies; veins of white hate boiled through the streams, and the earth
Shrieked in mindless pain, as souls were separated beyond hope...
…and of good, simmered an emptiness, where hope should have arisen.
- from "Rhymes beyond Keopthia"