Category: Writers Block
They came in hoards o'er river fords to bring destruction upon your town.
Hence your men in lines of ten marched forth towards killing ground.
With swords they slashed, and spears they flashed, till blood flowed beneath their feet.
With strength of will and need to kill, they toiled till twilight's meet.
Thence the soldiers worn, with wounds they'd borne, retired to stately sleep.
Beneath a languid moon, the bards' their tune, brought us some peace to keep.
But by Rosy-fingered dawn, fury shall spawn, and war must yet waken once more.
Anon they'll fight till next twilight, and turn the earth to bloody shore.
Oh city fair, in dark despair, how shall we sing your name?
For once your walls and marble halls were the stuff of fame.
Shall I recount the numerous founts that bathed your cobbled streets?
Or dare I tell the sites and smells of the market feats?
Mayhap I'll sing of anvil's ring as smithies forged their craft,
Or praise the merry unsolitary sounds as children played and laughed.
Now hear the dirge of the woeful scourge granted by the bards of war;
With sorrowful note, trembling wrote, dark despair is at the door.
Sharpened arrows flew from bows men drew to rain death behind boundaries high.
Blazing fires from funeral pyres, dark smoke blanketed the sky.
Maidens cried and children died, heroes felled from parapets aloft.
Thence were shorn, the newly born, to find no comfort in bosom soft.
Now on the field, with sword and shield, the men did vent their killing rage.
And now the grass, and armor of brass, oh how they claimed blood for their wage.
Stalwart fighting men, warring in a crimson glen, their flesh hung ragged upon the walls.
Old and young alike, cast upon spear and pike, never again to grace those humble halls.
And of the foe, how shall we know, in what numbers they came?
For they tore through, with hack and hew, leaving naught but fire and flame.
And yet their toll was not in whole without trial nor loss of blood,
For when they left, many were bereft, buried beneath a sea of crimson mud.
Savages mailed, with faces pale, they hailed from yonder plains.
Covered in full, from calf to skull, they came baring pikes and chains.
With cords they choked, and spears they poked, till vultures rejoiced in feeding frenzy.
Arrows and bolts and wooden catapults, they also had aplenty.
Neczurai they're named, for death their famed, and war and conquest is their joy.
No civil strings nor settling things, they ever wander to seek and destroy.
A withering plague, a phantom vague, neither as frightening as their brutal war.
And when in might, they come by night, dwellers do best to flee their bless'd door.
Merithryn the city, we sing in pity, and remember the echoes of your fabled strength.
For your sad demise, we wipe our eyes, and recount the tragedies at length.
Four massive gates sewn with iron plates, adorning each face of your mantle stone.
Many a rising tower, some to chime the hour, others bright with the signal lamps that shown.
These they torched, with flames they scorched, and scoured your cobbled streets.
The gates they smashed, the walls they crashed, iron girdle crushed beneath trampling feet.
Buildings fair and plazas there, all be smudged by pillaging hands.
Axes fell on sacred dwells, leaving naught but rubble upon shifting sands.
I sing in sorrow, with voices borrowed, of fabled Merithryn.
With sad relent, and efforts spent, resurrecting ashes from age'd coffin.
Gone her gold, a thousand fold, buried beneath the grains of time.
Only phantoms remain, bound by written chain, scrawled across this page of rhyme.
Her people lost in fearful Holocaust, oh savage peril of warring men.
A citadel fair, crafted by centuries care, shall we never see again.
Now echoes sleep, in your crypt to keep, and I lay this lyric to rest.
Remain only in our dreams, plots and artful schemes, sorrows borne in aching breast.
Wraith
wow, I honestly don't know what to say. It is so very deep, deeper than anything, and I do mean anything on this bord, cite, everywhere! You are amazing!
Wraith, the splendour of this writing penned remarkable indeed
‘Tis so much more in this hour that to you I make request and plead
Please, please grant onto us more of your thots in writing penned
Tease us not by giving us to think there shall perhaps not be more for you to rend
For as the Zephyrs blow across the land, the seas, the earth, from east unto the west
It is from depths so low that with strength anew to mount the heights I must confess
Comes rolling in like waves washing to the shore
As slaves no longer bound but rather as on seagull wings soaring as you spin new lores
Connie :)
ky ky ky! that is so deep, so full of feeling! could i put it to music? i could so here the tune while i was reading it! please?
kai kai. loui is write you should let her put it to music, it wood be grate. huge huggles as all ways. xxxxx