Tolkien Inspired Poetry: “Sorceress”

Author’s Note:
The following poem is dedicated to Legendarium Media’s Steve Fitch and Melisa Hunt for their ongoing literary support. Your encouragement is the cornerstone of my growth as a writer and a philosopher. May the stars of Westernes shine on all our roads. – John Evans

“Sorceress” by John Evans

Headline quean,
Literate sorceress,
Can you read my palm?
Can you transcribe my future,
Into raised images,
And familiar faces?
I know I am lost.

I know we are all lost,
Along the same primordial highway.
Some of us break free,
And take the unthinkable step,
Towards the edge of extinction,
Towards the brink of life.

Others remain,
Fastened to iron bars,
And facile lies,
Too dull to be treated seriously.
You alone hold the key,
Quiet angel.

You alone keep the mystery,
And the forgotten door,
Into the shapeless kingdom,
Where love is tangible,
And lust is a fact of mortality.
Often I look into your dark eyes and wonder,
How much have you seen,
Drifting from dream to dream,
Treading the invisible path,
Great bards sing of?

Often I share your chiseled smile and marvel,
At the beauty you seek,
And the spell you cast,
Without lifting a finger,
As though power were your name.

Time ebbs and flows about us,
Butchering tradition’s feral grasp,
While the cosmos spins on,
Oblivious to desire or vanity.

Another camera flashes,
Another vision is fulfilled,
And left to rot,
For the critics to pick at,
Like lean vultures,
Born upon a sterile wind.

That is what art is about now.
That is what public life amounts to,
When a narrow cabal of producers run the show,
And there is nowhere left to hide.

We’re all victims now,
Liable to crack,
Expected to rebel against our bonds,
And sleep in Eve’s naked arms.

But the gods have not forgiven us,
And the old roads are broken,
Never to be mended again,
Unless fate should intervene.

A concrete jungle smothers the artist,
And compels him to act,
While he has years to grow,
And hours of unspoken infamy.

Yet when I stand in your presence,
The grey curtain of these days is removed,
And I can measure the sunset,
As well as the golden dawn.

When I walk with you,
I can peer through the nightmare,
And see marvelous things,
Neither wholly real,
Nor imaginary.

Precious stranger,
Daughter of letters,
Woman of secrets,
Wreathed in summer due,
Where you roam,
I roam also,
And where you rest,
I rest too.

Decades of concentration,
And cloistered struggle,
Fall to pieces,
In your knowing glance.

Months of mystery,
And mangled purpose,
All converge,
In your tender embrace.
Whisper in my ear,
Enchanted mistress,
The same riddles,
Babble taught you,
Long ago,
And douse my ghost,
In silver fire,
That I might see you,
For who you truly are.

One step more,
And I will enter,
The warm abyss,
You have prepared for me.

One kiss more,
And I will fall,
Into the vast serenity,
Of your temporal orbit.

Here the least star shines,
Keener than a million constellations.

Here the wise fool knows,
His words shall be remembered.