"What sonorous cry"

What sonorous cry heard in the dead of the night?
A wild running through the mind
Hapless and weak, as a child in the forest, lost
A tremendous weight held fast to the heart
A tremendous love left aimless and yet fervent
The cold keeps to the body, a respite from the heat
A fire that will not abate, that will not die
Though no desire to let it expire; there never was
The scale, balanced on a knife's edge
One choice: to live but to hurt
The other: to die but to rest
There never was a choice; not with her
It is all part and parcel of the path
A journey not meant for the restful
It is but thunder and aching
Always sleepless and ever-stirring
That which gives life and purpose and strength
The curse and the gift—this love
The upheaval is set and directed
What sleep is left is for the dead and the loveless

M. M.

Fallen

The Fallen God stood atop the peak, the imperial sun above His
broken diadem, above His shattered godhead, searing His wingless back.
A great lance in His hand, a brand of fire and apostasy, a terrible thing.
With a movement of blinding light and imperceptible speed, He raised
His weapon and thrust down the spear, down into the mountain upon
which He domineered, down into the Earth, through rock and crust,
through spirit and mind, piercing the veil between god and man and
matter. What wailing arose, reaching into the world, beyond the seas and
the lands. A cry first heard before sound was sound, when time was young.
The God awoke the Old Things, dispersed the lies and dogma.
What reigned before would reign no more. It would no longer be fear
that would be the principle directive, the false law compelling men to
lash themselves to the book or the cloth or the martyr.

M. M.