The Weary and the Wayward.

‘Twas a windy, wuthering winter’s night
When the wayward hills lay drenched in starlight;
So lovely, they shimmered, as snowflakes in flight  
Graced them in shadowy shades of white.

Lady Eveline sat at the windowside;
Most days, it was there that she did reside.
With heavy heart, she softly sang and sighed;
So quiet and still was the soon-to-be bride.

The bailey, she guarded in somber silence,
Clutching a broadsword and kerchief, tokens of alliance.
Her soul held to hope in stubborn defiance;
She would wait, wide eyed, with wond’rous reliance.

Her lover, his laughter she longed to hear
But battles so brutal had carried him far from here,
From the lady he loved and the life he held dear;
Now only in dreams did he hold his darling near.

Suspended in time, Eveline waited, worried, wistfully wondered
Whilst the winter wind howled and relentlessly thundered.
A hundred leagues away, a hundred men, sundered,
Lay paralyzed, perished, pierced and plundered.

And a weary man whispered words wrought of yearning,
Disoriented in this distant, dismal domain, which was wildly burning;
The flames of the fires and funeral pyres told of a kingdom overturning,
But for what? The man pondered; what lesson could the lifeless possibly be learning?

His fire-haired maiden, fair-skinned, remained forsaken
By he, who had harbored a love she had just recently undertaken;
But now, inside of his soul stirred a softness awakened.

Awakened…

…Awakened to see the monstrosity he had become,
The senseless slaughtering and slaying to which he did succumb;
Not knowing until now that to this violence he’d fall numb,
He strayed fairly far from faith, and then some.

But redemption, he dreamed, did not dare take flight;
Forgiveness for his fiendish endeavors would find him under this fallen, forsaken February night,
And in his hell, a hope for heaven did ignite;

The wayward wanderer would not weep tonight.