Sestina, foo'

I am confused as how to actually produce this form--I've gotten a bunch of schemes from a bunch of sources--so this may not actually be one. But it has a form, it does.

In other news--POSSIBLY LONGEST POEM I HAVE EVER WRITTEN.

Written After A Kidnapping In The Woods On A Cold Evening

They come for me when winter's hounds are near
and darkness upon darkness kills the day,
beneath that silent blanket of our fears,
beneath the weary sparrow's southern way.
They come for me with torches burning bright
against the stifling darkness of the night.

I do not hear them come upon me til
I feel the horses' breathing taste my neck
and send the burrowed knife of fear render me still
as they surround me like mist--"Demons, detect
(I say with much more bravery than I feel)
that I--" They look, and fire melts the steel.

"Be quiet, youngling--yours is not the place
to speak upon we armies of the night.
We are the ones who see the Fiend's very face
so filled with spurnèd virtue turned to spite:
Can you produce the majesty of Hell?"
I hear my death close itself on its knells.

And I am tak'n and stolen then away
upon those beasts as solid as the wind
that comes up from the sea, wind tinged with waves
and salt and blood. I boldly try to spin
against my bonds to see the starts that gave
me life, that gave me death that eve
(and this for no true reason I'd believe!).

I cannot help but cry aloud-- "Oh God,
"How came I to this fate? Through some cruel jest
of Time or Place or Fancy? Did I nod
away my vigilance, my earnèd faith--"
I speak no more, yet silence does not ring;
I cease my words, and so begin to sing.

I cannot say where come this heav'nly song
Or why the riders suddenly stop their race;
I sing with mortal voice divine along
to cries of rage as I am loosed by grace.
"He has the Song! Begone, my brothers, fly!"
And I am left alone--the dark and I.

And so, if left alone on darker nights,
And fear no winter that does come with spring,
Let none come take you--free your soul and sing.