The Sage (Verse Iii, In Galafay) Poem by Warren Atherton

The ‘Dark’ had consumed much of Mid-Galafay,
As the Sage of his steer did dismount.
Two moons had since passed on two cold, lifeless days,
And of corpses the Sage had lost count.

The gut-feel of dread was much stronger this time
As he tightened his grip on his staff,
A presence so evil, emitting a whine,
And so shrill spoke of vengeance and wrath.

A foggy, cold mist lurked a foot from the ground,
Like a blanket of ghosts in torment.
Ghoulish visions that howled but denied of their sound
Gnarled their fangs, for such murder hell-bent.

The staff he was clutching began to emit
A luminous bright orange glow,
And the demonic mist disappeared in a fit
First one demon, the rest now in tow.

A carpet of insects lay dead in its wake
And small mammals were drained where they stood.
Whatever lay dormant in that misty-lake
Had a craving for red, flowing blood.

An ominous stench now began to ascend
In palpable swirls of green smoke.
Ring-fencing the Sage, putrefying its spend
Merely given its life for to choke.

A green flash of lightning reached down from the sky
And touched on the staff in his hand,
Sending blistering heat and the charred staff to fly
Whilst the Sage was consumed by the land.