Aschatria - Poetry

The vision of The Judge here says.

I'm fighting one of my own,

my own blood, flesh and bone.

Within a picture above the mirror

in unison we hold our hands.

The color our our eyes similar glow,

the serpent green in the ring of hollow.

The color of our heads, similar it stands red,

ashore of the great water our worlds both similar stand.

She is of the old gods, the left hand path,

with the blue rose in her hair named Rosalin.

I am of the old gods, the right hand path,

with the empiric star endowed to me

as the carrier of our line.

In the mirror the picture of an old unknown town

once our people shared, held by her Father.

In the same visage a pink hair rug-doll

and the garden of the roses

entwined with her Mother.

On the midnight stroke under the Blood Moon

her enchanted shadow

will crawl out of the glowing mirror

to deliver the message in the teardrop spiral.

In the name of our Ancient Gods and our Founding Fathers

I invoke thee Rosalie to stand afore me.

Fight, or chose to flee for the love of all you hold dear.

Fight the carrier of the descent line, face the strongest heart

or flee and resign of your unjust reasons and blood-moon charms.

Let the judgment fall upon us and verdict rise from the ashes of our doom.