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Writer's pictureS.E. Brunson

Brave




Enter past the rusted gate

Trespass beneath the moon

Ignore the warnings far too late

Death may be coming soon



But not for you, brave thoughtless one

Your light will never die

Respelendant glory shames the sun

And so onward you fly



Into the depths of some dark place

Where good things dare not go

A snarling of both time and space

An abyssal woe



Yet on you march, knife in hand

An idiot to fear

A knave well known throughout the land

Your destiny is here



The torchlight flickers, fading, dulled

With each new step you take

A setting sun, a star annulled

The shadows overtake



And now all you have is sound

To guide you through the deep

Yawning void pressed all around

Towards the end you creep



Each heartbeat pounding in your throat

Makes breathing a concern

To think back when you used to gloat

Your cheeks begin to burn



You've walked along a few days now

Down this way and that. 

Long since past wondering how

To make some light to cast.



You're lost inside the deep dark ways

Your food is running low

Until your water disappears

On and on you'll go.



But now the water's all run dry

And there's no end at all

You haven't even tears to cry

No voice with which to call.



You're all alone in your own tomb

Dying wide awake

Pressing on to your own doom

Your own grave to make



At last you lie down, hungry, tired

Cold and weak and sore.

You can't march onward, you retire

And lay down on the floor.



The rats pass by and mark your place

You're too alive to eat

But soon they'll check around again

And have themselves some meat



Let this be a lesson, couers

About this place of bones.

Don't go through the chained-off doors

in Paris' catacombs.


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