Exile

I drift through the void, across realms untold,
Thrown by a shadow into endless night.
My thought turns to the query born of old:
Shall nothing triumph? Shall death come for light?
Even the stars, those lords of blazing pow'r
Though they drive back the dark and bring forth life,
Dwindle and fail at some appointed hour,
Bereft of all, spent from their constant strife
With the great foe and end, the spiteful one
The great consumer who lurks at time's close;
He devours all things 'til there can be none,
Alone he reigns, destroying all his foes.
Will death condemn all things that can be known,
All transitory worlds his dominion?

Or could there be, in some exalted height
One before whose throne ev'n nothing bends;
Strength supreme, banishing primordial night,
An authority that o'er death extends?
And yet, what immense mind could create light?
Oh, what word could command the words to be?
What would this then be in that awful sight?
Dreams only, insubstantial wraiths are we.
At but a sidelong glance the world would melt,
Scourg'd by the mighty one that purely is.
Such subtleties can only now be felt,
Not comprehended nor resolv'd, for this –
It is the greatest mystery of all,
For by power or shadow we shall fall.

What then is our purpose? Our mortal lives
Are surely forfeit in the end, no hope
For happy resolution. Like blazing knives,
Pain stands victorious at road's end. I grope,
But no answers can find. My thought is black.
There is something that might to me remain:
Duty is the king's honor, and no lack
Shall any gaze discern through all my reign.
Though a usurper wields the scepter now,
Mine is the obligation; nor shall I
Rest till my people are at peace. And thou,
Dark rebel, I shall hunt, and you will die.
Know this and tremble, for in wrath and doom
The spurned king will arise. I shall return.