Tag Archives: poem

Monsters Under My Eyelids

Good morning. Every day is an opportunity. Gotta keep telling myself that. A child, faced with a monster, closes their eyes. What do they do when they’re still there in the dark behind their eyelids? What do you do when you close your eyes but you can still see those things you find most terrifying? Grab your little toy hammer and grasp it tight. Face them down. First and foremost, you are your own protector. Become a hero to yourself and you will find peace.

Die Helden von Einst

that’s where i want to be

not waiting to see

not fleeing, but flying, steadfastly alighting

my course, ever self righting

all’s well that ends well

building a boat

rise above the ocean swell

never to glean, never to gloat

a good man

realizing how i ran

never again

to find in others, that sacred glen

i find my peace

whence from me, you’ve taken a piece

amidst ancient stones, druidic hymn

not for him, just for him

Going east

searching for the beast

in the forest, hearing birdsong

i know the journey ahead will be long

Enduring quest

runic test

training and straining

the beast’s strength never waning

and with my spear and shield i trudge on

ever further, unto the dawn

drawing strength from heroes past

knowing my line will not be the last

von Helden komme ich

und Held werde ich sein

Marching Onwards

Good morning! Today is a day for marching onwards. For not just surviving, but conquering the day. Make your progress, take your progress. Today is a day to break down the walls and barriers of your previous conventions. Today is the day of The Siege.

The Siege, Part One

Billowing, blackened, choking smoke

Giant, quaking, lumbering beasts pulled by yoke

Timbers creak and crack and break

For their lord, they’ve souls to take

A siege, The Siege, undertaken

Bastions bewitched and ripe for the taking

These heretics, by their god, forsaken

All under this hot sun baking

Aching, groaning machines of war

Shifting metals, crushing petals

Through that wall their machines did bore

Waiting now until dust settles

An anxious, terrifying silence

Defenders move and fill the hole

Resolved to their defiance

Defenders rally to save their soul

From beyond the pale dust

A thundering of hooves, of boots, of drums?

Through the cloud come the Warriors of Rust

It is not rust from whence their name comes

Dread Depending

Good day, all. Today is a day to think of the end of the world. What can you possibly do to avert such an event? What can you do when you have no control? What do you do when you are faced with the coming of the Black Crusade? Survive, at all cost. There are fates worse than death.

Atah’Zanadu, The Great Crusade

Sifting sands

Fervent bands

Marching with full hands

Through humble dunes to distant lands

“Hallowed be thy name,

O great god of arid plains,

Deliver us from our pains,

And wipe from us our stains”

Cleanse the infidel, purge the heretic

They sally forth in dark cascade

Were house and palace, now a single burning stick

They carry out this black crusade

“Your watchful gaze brings no attrition,

Your watchful gaze brings no sedition,

Your watchful gaze brings attribution,

O Lord, as we effect your retribution”

Burning fires, heat and cinder

Houses are ash, families are tinder

Onwards, onwards, unto the dawn

Each and every one of you, but a simple pawn

Busts and Buttresses

Good morning. Nothing, you see, has quite the same longevity as stone. It is ancient when you’re born, it is ancient when you die, and it will be ancient when your great great grandchildren die. When nothing else survives, so the stone goes and lives on. Always there, perhaps changing ever so slightly, but always there. You may not last forever, but your sculptures will. Make your busts and buttresses. They’ll outlive you.

Saga of the Stone

So too, do all things, turn from ash and bone

to dust and stone

It matters not if you atone

For all is ash as dice are thrown

Turning leaves with the rake

Doing all this for your sake

It matters not if you will break

For all is bone as beasts awake

As bricks and timber start to quake

There’s no time and nothing to take

Flee, my child, there’s no need to shake

For all is ash beside the lake

Answer, answer please, the telephone

I only wish you could have known

There is no need for terror sown

For all is stone,

And you are alone

Black Bangs

Good evening, friends. Busy day today, preferable for me. Posting from my phone on that account. Truly a blast. I have for you today a poem that I spent the last 30 minutes writing. I think you’ll enjoy this. Without further ado:

The Last Musketeer

How am I supposed to function

This pain in my chest

Beating heart, myocardial infarction

From which I have no rest

Rippling, rifting, sifting sanity

Robbing, sobbing

In the mirror, the vanity

For apples, we’re bobbing

Tubers and shoots

Zipping through my chutes

Down through my legs

And out through my boots

All my fingers

And all my toes

Slender digits, saintly timbre

Singing souls, lovely ghosts

All is cinder

Burning timber

Start from tinder

Detach the limber

12-Ilber horse artillery

Sound the cannon

Turn that pillory

Into a canyon

“All for one, and one for all,” said the first, said d’Artagnan.