Zealotry is indelible,
carved out of ages reclaimed
and undoubted,
requisite and requiem;
the Prophets said
You shall know a Greater Journey
when all that you love
brands you with the searing dreams of
Truth,
Mercy,
Regret,
and High, High Charity.
If I am ever unworlded,
let me lie with my brothers
in hierophantic embrace,
in the strong, furrowed reach of destiny,
noble and naufragile,
nacreously nostalgic.
Ennourishing.
Envigorating.
Envoyenic.
Envidious.
End the seasons of declamation,
the poorer qualities of reason and rout.
For I am no Index, no Reclaimer, no Arbiter, no Precursor:
neither mendicant nor offensive,
Ark or Array,
Sword or Shield.
No.
I am not brave, or fast, or strong.
I am a monument to none of your sins.
I am what she called Luck:
your past, your future,
your way the world could finally return
to a better end.