Poetry

                                       Justified

     Where am I? Is this a dream? But that cannot be. I'm not sleeping.

Around, above, beneath me, I am buried in a thick, dark, foggy mist. 

Searching for the right words, I find none to express this chilling

Cold plaguing my soul. "Why is it so cold here?" I bellow into the vast,

Painful, suffocating, oppressing white mist, hoping

That someone might hear me. My voice echoes, expressing my unrest,

But, as I feared, there is no answer. The ever-present, undying,

Inward chill remains. "Where's everyone?" I implore. "Anyone?" Yet

There is no answer. I fall on my knees—fingers frozen—teeth cracking

Because of the awful cold! I see someone. It's him. "Where comes that

Man who now is old, the mist?" No. It's only second. Heart wrenching

As it is, there is a first. The old specter possesses me, the mist getting worst.

While on the ground, freezing externally and internally, lo,

I see two shades approaching, not making a sound. Hidden in the misty,

Unforgiving-ground, I lay by them unseen. Their words are so

Clear that I am as one among their council bidden. Presently,

One is speaking in a commanding tone—as a victor returning from a battle

Won. "Charis,” he says, “by the orders of Him who lives eternally,

He must die. You need not like it but it's the law. 'You reap what you sow!' "

The other answers. His voice is no less powerful, yet he speaks gently.

His tone is as the soothing flute. "Nomos, I understand," he says, "no

Explanation is needed. If you find him first, you are free to do as He

Has commanded. But I too have orders from Him of the Land of no

Beginning and ending." He sighs: "Poor soul! If you'd quit running from me

And acknowledge to His Majesty your lost condition as an unworthy foe,

I would heal you as He, through the generosity

Of His Son, has bid." They're on my pursuit while I lay by them unseen. "O

How dreadful!" Like a madman, I get an urge to rise and run. "Why such insanity?

They're but a few feet away!" But the madness is upon me. It is so:

My fear of Nomos and mistrust for Charis seems to have completely

Changed me. Running, I curse them; thus, my well-earned end of woe.

     Terrible Nomos, Bane of the Unrighteous, sees and trips me and I fall,

Cold blood running down my nose, for I offend his Lord. I try to run,

But to no avail: for, like a javelin, he plants his sword by my head. Well,

Luckily for me, my blood is not shed. While groveling on

The ground, the Terrible Bane plants his titanic heel

Into my side. My mouth shoots open. I'm in excruciating pain,

But what's worse is knowing from him there is no escape. How has the shell

That hid me for so long violently taken away! When

I look up I see his enormous boot above my skull about to crush it. "Tell

Me, Sir," I entreat. "How have I offended?" Part of me longs to weep, but I refrain.

Instead, I look up at him defiantly while he stands victoriously. "What's to tell?

You have offended the King. As His avenger I come but, for certain,

Not by chance—" His foot, like an asteroid, prepares to fall on my skull.

I attempt to run, but the Terrible Bane, with strength unknown to men,

Kicks me on the back. I roll from him for so long I needn't a wall.

     Barely conscious, the cruel and tyrannical mist all around me, but more

Consuming, I shiver. Sleep has come upon me. My eyes are weighty, and

Raising them, I see a Mirror before me—not at all blurry. "In the core

Of this foggy, wintry-night, where comes it?" Its base and frame are white and

Spotless. The mirror, too, is pristine. I needn't draw near to see this most sore

And loathsome sight. It gives me a fright. The creature of legend

I'm beholding—how terribly fearsome!—though scarred and deformed, wore

Man's feature. Its teeth are red like blood—eyes are black as sackcloth of hair—hand

Is as a bear's paw. Looking at it, I've become sore afraid. Will it gore

Me, tearing me to pieces? It's so ominous, only few would dare stand

In his fearsome presence! With Nomos far off, and me in such a poor

State, Compassionate Charis comes and lays his hand on me. Understand

That I want to run, but my injuries won't allow it. "Listen to my lore,"

He says gravely, "the reflection is your own, Verlandieu." I look again, and,

Lo, it's true. I fall on my face weeping, grief and shame seizing me. "No more

Running. I deserve it all!" "Do not cry," he says. "He bore your judgment, friend."

     As if out of nowhere, Nomos appears—sword in hand like a fearsome apparition.

But I will not run. I understand this as my portion. Without notice of my tears

And broken heart, Nomos takes me by the throat. The fearsome apparition

Raises me above the mist, his sword dangerously close to my poor heart that's

Now so broken. My life ebbing, and Charis, aware of my helpless condition,

Hands me something. "Eat it," he urges. "It's a fruit from the tree from where His

Majesty's Son died for your offenses. He is risen. Make this your portion

And you, too, will live and not die." Seizing the seconds

Given to me, I take and eat. The fruit is as bread and wine. When

I survey my right and my left for Nomos, he is nowhere in sight. Is

It the fruit, I wonder? Surprised, I ask Charis, "Where has Nomos gone?

Is he not the avenger, my executioner, whose wrath rains

Like a shower?" "You and Nomos have no business together. When

You ate of that tree you were brought under my power." I look Charis

In the eyes—the mist at its best—no longer afraid, thanks to the King's Son, in