There is a beat beneath the feet of those
Who wear their hearts on their sleeves
And on the souls of their weary boots.
Only they are known as Masters.
There is no skip in their vacant steps,
As they have lost fulfillment long ago.
Yet a hundred thousand sacrifices
They make to be known as Masters.
Do you really want to become us?
He asks to the golden-eyed child,
The black-haired, golden-eyed child,
As he stands in the cruel grave of defeat.
He understands the determination
That stews in the golden, molten eyes
Of this black-haired champion child.
He knows it as the gaze of another Master.
But he is too young to hold that chasm
In his gentle, solemn hands that touch
With only chagrin and the deepest care,
The things that Masters wash their hands of.
Still, he is strong, this golden-eyed child,
This black-haired, golden-eyed child,
And such strength should be keep beneath
The wraps of purity and silent triumph.
The boy nods and meets his steady gaze,
Pleading for him to pave the way
And sow the rocky championship ground
For future men like him to tread upon.
But instead, he shakes his drowsy head,
Weary from wearing his heart on his sleeve
And stamping his soul on the heel of his boot.
He doesn't want this boy to be like him.
Like him, this golden-eyed boy,
This black-haired, golden-eyed boy
He wants to protect him from the dragon
Rage he has tasted and slept against.
He turns away and tells the boy to
Find his way on his precarious own.
For now, he needs to be alone himself,
As he is a devoid Master no more.
He walks a trail of fire far, far away,
The heels of his boots moving with
No skip in their bleak, empty step.
His heart cries, reticent, on his sleeve.
Perhaps he is glad. Perhaps he should be,
For no longer does he need to sacrifice
The coming years of his hollow life;
Perhaps now, it is time for him to rest.
For instead, this black-haired boy,
This golden-eyed, black-haired boy
Vows to take his ghastly place for him.
He speaks not to ruin his pride.
And he walks
With a beat
Beneath his feet,