Epica Fantastica

An empire sprang up in the desert deep,
Where sky and heavens rarely weep,
Over the sea of gold, the mighty dunes,
And etched into the mountain sides, silver runes.

And far away, a distant man in scintillating clothes,
Wanders in search of the many roads,
With platinum flute ready to hand,
He walks the land, across the sand.

He pauses now and lifts his flute to play,
Trying to keep his sorrow at bay,
Feelings for her, unrequited and alone,
They search for affinity but remain unknown.

The music flows from him, in waves of color,
Invoking pictures lovely and bright as he thinks of her,
Wisps of magic emanating from the haunted individual,
The music spectral and lovely, from the soul.

The music spirals higher, and higher yet,
Through the silver dark sunset,
And now a crystal dragon swoops and soars,
Its clarion call, the trumpets of war.

The dragon wings strongly on,
Through storm and sun, night and dawn,
Wheeling, dipping, circling round,
Then off again, without a sound.

The dazzling colors, shimmering in the sun,
The one of many colors and of none,
Looking down, with eyes of a hawk,
Where men of many colors walk.

Its mighty travels carry it to distant spheres,
But in every place are the ancient fears,
And powerful traditions, bubbling forth,
As the mighty legions sweep to the north.

Wealthy warlords call for blood,
As the common men die in the human flood,
The people die for unjust cause,
Furthering bandit kings and oppressive laws.

But a warrior stands out, stands strong,
His righteous anger battles the terrible Wrong,
And as he falls, he knows what his weaving swords failed to do,
In his endless slumber, the warrior's Heart shines through.

Another world, with a race ancient and wise,
Compassion and love reflected in their eyes,
They fashioned beautiful kingdoms of enchantment,
Before disappearing, leaving no hint as to where they went.

And an old man cries out in anger and frustration,
As his students, the wielders of power grew too impatient.
The old man leaves them to the very worst fate,
Leaving them to deal with what they create.

And a thousand worlds mourn the loss of their lord,
His passing brought about because his lore was ignored,
The unified wail of the sorrow and grief,
Is marked only in the Tree of Life by the falling of a leaf.

A chuckle spans time and space,
An invisible laugh from an invisible face,
The mirth brought forth in watching the strivings of humanity,
But the splendor of mankind is what the chuckler cannot see.

Philosphers debate which is more important,
The message itself or from whom it was sent,
The holy word is ambiguous indeed,
As to who constitutes the messiah's seed.

A sound rings clear and true,
The chime of sunlight off a drop of dew,
The perfect sound, and a glimpse of more,
But it passes unnoticed, drowned out by a dragon's roar.

And in the desert empire, sparkling in the sun,
Beside the golden dunes, where streams of sand run,
Grand seas of sand with currents and tides,
With sun and mountains as the only guides.

The sun beats down with waves of heat,
Making the painted landscape hot to the feet,
Mirages appear but vanish just as fast,
In the desert nothing is eternal, nothing can last.

But the nights...the nights are cold,
The silver sand and the moon of gold,
A jeweled scimitar hanging in the sky,
A gust of wind, the desert sighs.

And then an oracular decree sweeps the empire,
Spreading out of control like an Abbyssinian fire,
Speaking the silver runes, the prophet raises the fiery orb
in trembling hands,
And the empire sinks below the shifting sands.

Minstrel