Tanka Epic, Part 5

This is the fifth part of the ongoing Tanka Epic, an experiment in writing an epic poem where each stanza is a standalone tanka. I suggest starting at part one (click Tanka Epic on the right-hand side to see them all).

His great sword resting
Upon his cold, steel pauldron,
The Knight strides swiftly
Down the narrowing hallway
Past his foe’s hidden refuge.

The hall ends at last
At a small and humble door
Set into the stone,
Nearly concealed by sameness,
But just barely visible.

The hero pushes
Firmly on the iron door,
His muscles straining,
In an attempt to dislodge
The little door from its frame.

Stone cracks and crumbles,
Pebbles falling to the ground
As the doorway slides,
The frame itself tearing out
From the dungeon hallway’s walls.

With a final groan
And shriek of warping metal,
The doorway falls in
And the Knight stumbles forward,
Off the precipice beyond.

Quickly scrambling,
Reaching up desperately,
Somehow, the Knight grabs
Onto the ledge above him
As the door plummets downward.

He spares a glance downward
And quickly regrets his choice.
A sea of blackness
Looms below him, threatening
To devour his light whole.

Grunting with the strain,
The Knight pulls himself upward,
His shoulders shaking,
Onto the tight precipice
Above the endless chasm.

Turning his gaze out,
Away from the broken door,
He sees the mesa
Of stone, rising from the dark
Not fifteen feet from his perch.

He takes a step back
Into the hallway behind.
With a small grimace,
He launches himself forward,
Vaulting over the chasm.

His plate mail rattles
As he sways precariously
On the narrow ledge
Where he landed awkwardly.
Only the earthquake saves him.

He is pitched forward
As the earth suddenly shakes.
He pulls himself up
And peers down, expecting black,
But sand fills what was the gap.

Pouring from nothing
Into that eternal space,
The sand falls still there
Where countless souls have fallen,
Now lay buried by the tide.

It begins to swirl
About that lonely pillar,
A gritty maelstrom
To smother the shining light
The Seraph brings to the world.

The beast emerges
Silently from the sandpit,
Unmoved by its pull.
A creature of myth and tales
Told by drunks in lonely bars.

A serpent of tan,
Spiny wings as from a bat,
Though colored lighter,
Emerge from just below its head.
Its malign grin displays swords.

Stunned by the sight of
The mighty desert serpent,
His mouth sits agape.
He waits for physical proof
That this is no illusion.

The sight is confirmed
By a roar of fetid breath
Emerging from it,
Its claymore teeth glistening,
Ravenous for some meat.

The Knight staggers back,
Reaching for his fallen sword.
He straightens quickly,
Showing resolve, but hiding
His substantial fear inside.

This was not his end,
Before this foul creature’s
Fanged, cavernous maw.
He had one more battle left,
And so he pressed yet onward.