don of the dead (reprise)

wee wonder
at the lurkings
in the dark tower of his lair
and, squinting ‘gainst the storms of power
crackling round his dusky hair, we set our stubborn, wave-lashed feet
upon the slippery stone
won with sodden writhing
up the muddy pitch we fought
tatters soaked to chilly bone and every shining muscle tau(gh)t
to cling and quiver, fever fraught
to ground which was and then was not
beneath us
loosened by the rushing waters

wind an eerie keening moan
the wailing of king neptune’s daughters
weeping round his clammy throne, but
up! with us, up!
onward urged by common thought
(all else was purged fires more hot
than all this rain could render naught)

pressed to the test

clear the orders from our mistress:
death or demon,
storm the fortress!

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