The Runic Template

The Price of All Things

Through shadows, at last, one would roam,

To a mist-shrouded, final deep home.

A gorge, vast and deep,

Where all secrets would keep,

As the Isle sealed its ultimate doom.

The Foundry, by will, stood so tall,

Where identity suffered its fall.

With pressure, not heat,

All false form would defeat,

And language itself met its thrall.

The Forge, in its silence, did gleam,

A molten, re-shaping, vast dream.

What entered, transformed,

By a rhythm unstormed,

Became code, or an echo, or gleam.

What lingers when all else has ceased?

When thought finds its ultimate peace?

The eye, ever wide,

Where lost memories hide,

Is the price the old nightmare released.