Category: Writers Block
Questing sword who arcs to waiting blood,
Crimson mud beneath the flashing blade,
In haunted glade the contest turns,
When hellfire burns and warriors fall.
Iron maul who rushes toward waiting bones,
Who like stones beneath a titan's ponderous feet,
Shuddering meet the crushing force of doom,
And seal the tomb of heroes' rest.
Golden crest upon stalwart shield,
On battlefield becomes a beacon bright,
In war-torn night when Cerberus is fed,
From spirits dead and heroes' remains.
Writhing chains that bind prisoner's hands,
On scorching sands to oaken post,
Beneath sun to roast and slowly die
Where he lies: a hero's funeral pyre.
Phantom fire that consumes the campers' tents,
And leaps the fence to devour the hapless beasts,
At their feast of rotting oats and hay,
Then on its way to envelop the heroes' grounds.
Tumultuous sounds spring from the conflagration,
Source and destination blurred by inferno of hell,
Without word nor spell to quench the roaring death,
Rushing breath by breath to fill the heroes' lungs.
A hundred rungs are laid on charred camping ground,
A rising mound of stinking corpses spilling smoke,
To ceaseless choke those who salvage their comrades' raiment,
Enemy's payment for a decade of heroes' rage.
Once the war was waged for a woman's heart,
Men apart strove to win the nymphly prize,
Immortal lies and promises fed their thirst,
To be the first and last to find a hero's return.
Now the one has earned a gruesome end,
As friend by friend they lay upon the field,
Beyond need of sword and shield these warriors roam,
Bereft of home and a hero's just reward.
Apollo’s arrows toward these men have flown,
For sins their own and trespasses made,
Against priest's crusade lately spurned,
Thus the arrows turned on heroes' folly.
Now sapling holly or aspens grown,
Where were thrown the corpses ages ago --
High and low across the healing land,
Hyperion's hand to hover with hero's glimpse of dawn.
So are drawn the final pages of savage past,
And perhaps at last, bring a hero's needed peace,
For men of Greece and Trojan's old,
In stories told by fruit of heroes' blood.
Kai
Very good. Makes me want to go re-read Homer, almost.
Thanks.
Bob
Hahah, I don't think anything could make me want to reread Homer, even almost, but I love this. It's all imageful and stuff, and very pretty, in a morbid kinda way.
VIVID! Rather gruesome, but very good nonetheless.
Good one, I can imagine it.