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merciful oblivion

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When he praises the Light

He relies not upon the murmuring chapel’s faith

He is calling upon the Light in his comrade’s eyes

The one that flickers so softly when he falters in combat.

He thanks the Light for the way it shines upon him

With rapturous attention and worshiping words

As it sparks in dark brown eyes underneath a bar’s torchlight

“Come home, come to my arms, come to bed,” it murmurs.

The service before the Service is fingers in his hair,

Quick whispers of prayer and an intensive studying of Solomon’s Song

There is no shame, no masking of intentions as they redress

After all, had that morning not been spent basking in the Light?