The Once And Future Dayspring

I.

They thought it was a phase.
Thought, hey, maybe one of these days

they'd bring themselves back to their bodies

for good.

We thought it clear
that we live and die by our names,

that we stamp out the darkness
by playing.

My name is Dayspring.

Twenty-three years old,
in near-perfect health.

Yet thousands of deaths.

Sharp, thunderous thousands,
thousands with no hyperbole.

O commendable thousands sing
elastic mortality of Dayspring.

Dead hoisting the flag at Warsong.
Dead with tea at the twenty-fifth hour.
Dead sun-struck through fog of war.

Dead crying on the bathroom floor.
Dead for my transgressions on Tarren Mill.

Laid to waste by cloak n' dagger death.
Dead trembling in the resurrection well.
Dead protecting them who would carry me.
Dead loving them who would carry me.
Dead to those who've no proof otherwise.
Dead falling from the water of Skettis.
Dead with haste which breeds mistakes.

Impressed with how dead.
Dead condensing the bad into past.
Dead at the outset of yet another conquest.

Dead escaping my murderous shadow.
Jumped dead by the well-prepared horde.
Discovered dead at the thirty-sixth hour.
Pressing on dead despite fleeing particles.
Dead at sea sunk from the pressure.
Dead destroyed by banks of the river.
Dead kneeling beneath trees of Ashenvale.
In blessed ecstasy dead though who can tell.
Inevitable, indelible death.