Passacaglia Of A Cursed King

Heavy is the head that bears the weight 

Of that which was and will never be again

For memories are sweeter than moments.

Tired grows the King that sits the throne

Of jagged Glass that rules this crooked land

His is a necessary nobility, nothing more.

Slowly beats the heart that keeps the man

Marching forth on a never-ending road to ruin

This crusade is his curse to bear alone.

A boy once, a boy no longer, he breathes

Each breath as if it may be his very last

He spends what he has wisely.

A fighter now, a fighter forever, he foregoes

Every future where he might be safe and stable

For he is needed far more far away.

A defender damned, a defender still, he does

Exactly what he needs to do to defend the dream

A dream he will not let die with him.

Now all is still, and nothing moves forth

The man runs still, runs with all his might

Against the invisible, immovable, it is futile.

Now all is empty, and nothing feels right

All has faded like flashes of the muzzle

Better days are too far to recall well.

Now all is bright, and nothing comforts him

Everything shines so bright in his myriad mirrors

But nothing at all lies behind them.

Thinking of the time when he walked

Beside the one person he could call friend

He is joined now by only echoes and blood.

Remembering the days when he made

A difference with every move, somewhere

He lies empty-handed, the invisible bearing down.

Missing the past when he burned

With the light of life and all seemed so right

Now nothing seems anything at all.

No exits are left, for he closed them all

Trapped the world’s monsters in here with him

Now he himself is trapped with him.

No allies are left, for he had so few to begin

All departed for their own good, or else

It is, he tells himself again, better this way.

No strength is left, for he had none to begin with

Just too much ambition for a too-young boy

And too much stubbornness to give up.

But this land demands a ruler, and his throne

Its shards laced deep in his skin the moment he sat

Is not one that can be abdicated lightly.

For this evil demands an enemy, and his mirrors

Reveal the true overgrowth of the underbrush

Nothing cuts deeper than the face in glass.

And this life demands a purpose, so his path

Cannot now be changed, seared in his soul

His choice was made long ago, in a different life.

So the daring dreamer carries that legacy onward

The memories coursing through his veins

This world will not become dust like his.

The unrelenting hunter marches forward

Invisible to the world he tries to serve

With unclean hands and tarnished soul;

And the man beneath knows he may never succeed

But that it is his duty to try, and try, and try

What else is there for a man to do?

---

[Author’s Note: This poem about Hunter Powers, King of Glass and scourge of the Thyrian Underworld, was originally written June 6, 2023 and not remastered for release. After an extended period of time away from the Thyriaverse, and a period of admittedly rough mental health, I found that I needed to return home, and the first step that seemed right was revisiting Hunter via poetry. I’m working on a much more comprehensive piece about his origins, which I may or may not post here, depending on how open I am to spoiling relatively big things. In any case, Hunter’s a character that’s been around as long as I’ve been, but I’ve never really related or connected to him quite so deeply as I do now. That’s probably not the best thing, but we do rarely get the best available to us. I’ll say also, a passacaglia is a serious musical form based around triple meter, which should explain some things. More soon. Until we have need of one another again.]