This was written for a Bardic Contest in Achaea.
Dear, Mhaldor
Upon the rough, desolate Western Sea,
in the depths of the Northen Vashnarians hidden,
rife with burning trees and blackened lea.
From an immense, bloody, stalagmite risen,
Lies Mhaldor, the great and mighty Black City.
Within the Streets of Sin and the Junctions of Peredition,
scholars pore the tomes and laws that the Twin Lords had bidden,
the char-blackened rapiers sing of the Ebon Knights of ambition
and of the serpents, of the Naga, their secrets so expertly woven.
In Mhaldor, the great and mighty Black City.
Whence sinister, insane scientists conduct unequitable experiments
and whence unspeakable horrors dwelve deep in the red, fetid fog.
On the stones of the Courtyard floor, the Baelgrim battlements
doth the Mhun and Orc work, fearing, lest they shall feel the flog
Of Mhaldor, the great and mighty Black City.
At the Unholy Cathedral, where shouts and screams are rend,
Irilan suffers, the Haruspex dwells and the Illuminatrix uncovers.
At the Red Square, where many flock to sit or to stand,
quivering with mirth, at the luckless head that Theoren recovers.
At Mhaldor, the great and mighty Black City.
Under the iron-fisted rule of the Tyrannaus
and the law of the Apocrypha,
Mhaldorians guided by the Seven Truths
will crush those of weakness, of the light and of the tree.
Their heathen footsteps, desperate and hasty.
Under the Twin Lords' crimson blinding star,
their cowardly, fearful faces are illuminated,
illuminated in the darkest light as they flee.
From Mhaldor, the great and mighty Black City.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Leviticus
Leviticus
There once lived a man
discontent.
Surrounded by many,
loved by none.
He haven't companions,
his quarters: sensible ... spartan.
His lifestyle:
ordered, miserly, breathless.
He disapproved of everything.
Of everything, he disapproved.
Neither of avarice nor any sin,
he believed himself tempted.
Leviticus
It was an irritable,
deliciously miserable day
when a strange,
indiscernable tune did play.
From a barely audible sonata,
it grew to a mournful lament.
Climbing, ever climbing,
it became a Song of Clement.
Where it might touch one's soul,
and warm it to the very depths.
It failed but to induce
annoyance.
Of its strangeness,
he thought naught, it was told.
Choosing simply to ignore
and continue counting his gold.
As long as he paid no heed,
so long the song endured.
Ever changing, in pitch, in timbre.
In its intricacies, in its structure.
I spoke of everything.
Of life.
Of death.
Of the universe.
Of the Summer,
it spoke of heavy air.
Glaring light, thirst,
and sand bleached fair.
Of the Spring,
it spoke of fresh grass.
Flowing streams, wild flowers.
A period of the finest finesse.
Of the Autumn,
it spoke of falling leaves.
Foilage of reds, oranges, yellows.
Of the beauty hidden in the trees.
Of the Winter,
it spoke of the bitter frost.
Withering of life, scalding cold.
Of the child-like innocence lost.
It spoke of these and more,
the imaginary dulcet voice
bearing gifts of eloquence
and of a world enticed.
Yet, he had not a care for these worlds,
for he had no imagination
and had seen no profitable use for it.
He scorned it.
Day and Night,
From Night to Day,
the tune continued.
Continued to play.
He could not sleep --
the song kept him awake.
He could not eat --
the song took his appetite.
He could not rest,
the song did its best.
He could not work,
the song drained him flat.
His annoyance turned to
irrepressable anger and outrage!
Everywhere he went, everything he did,
the infernal song endured!
What he worked so hard to ignore,
now become his sole obsession.
He sought the source desperately,
to quell it, to quench it.
To destroy it.
He quested high and low,
made inquiries
and went to extreme highs (and lows)
yet to no avail.
He scoured the earth,
turned over the land,
drank the sea, but,
yet to no avail.
He felt for Religion,
he found nothing.
He begged of Science,
they confessed everything.
Everything but the source
of his torment, his madness.
Then, he realised.
There was but one place
he had no probed. --
His heart.
He drew a blade and
plunged it into his heaving chest.
He thrust it downwards
to expose the shrivelled, beating heart.
He stared at the vivisection,
and smiled grimly.
He fell in his own blood, unmoving.
Dead, and finally free.
From the Song of Life and its torment.
Free in the arms of Death.
In its emptiness,
and its silence.
There once lived a man
discontent.
Surrounded by many,
loved by none.
He haven't companions,
his quarters: sensible ... spartan.
His lifestyle:
ordered, miserly, breathless.
He disapproved of everything.
Of everything, he disapproved.
Neither of avarice nor any sin,
he believed himself tempted.
Leviticus
It was an irritable,
deliciously miserable day
when a strange,
indiscernable tune did play.
From a barely audible sonata,
it grew to a mournful lament.
Climbing, ever climbing,
it became a Song of Clement.
Where it might touch one's soul,
and warm it to the very depths.
It failed but to induce
annoyance.
Of its strangeness,
he thought naught, it was told.
Choosing simply to ignore
and continue counting his gold.
As long as he paid no heed,
so long the song endured.
Ever changing, in pitch, in timbre.
In its intricacies, in its structure.
I spoke of everything.
Of life.
Of death.
Of the universe.
Of the Summer,
it spoke of heavy air.
Glaring light, thirst,
and sand bleached fair.
Of the Spring,
it spoke of fresh grass.
Flowing streams, wild flowers.
A period of the finest finesse.
Of the Autumn,
it spoke of falling leaves.
Foilage of reds, oranges, yellows.
Of the beauty hidden in the trees.
Of the Winter,
it spoke of the bitter frost.
Withering of life, scalding cold.
Of the child-like innocence lost.
It spoke of these and more,
the imaginary dulcet voice
bearing gifts of eloquence
and of a world enticed.
Yet, he had not a care for these worlds,
for he had no imagination
and had seen no profitable use for it.
He scorned it.
Day and Night,
From Night to Day,
the tune continued.
Continued to play.
He could not sleep --
the song kept him awake.
He could not eat --
the song took his appetite.
He could not rest,
the song did its best.
He could not work,
the song drained him flat.
His annoyance turned to
irrepressable anger and outrage!
Everywhere he went, everything he did,
the infernal song endured!
What he worked so hard to ignore,
now become his sole obsession.
He sought the source desperately,
to quell it, to quench it.
To destroy it.
He quested high and low,
made inquiries
and went to extreme highs (and lows)
yet to no avail.
He scoured the earth,
turned over the land,
drank the sea, but,
yet to no avail.
He felt for Religion,
he found nothing.
He begged of Science,
they confessed everything.
Everything but the source
of his torment, his madness.
Then, he realised.
There was but one place
he had no probed. --
His heart.
He drew a blade and
plunged it into his heaving chest.
He thrust it downwards
to expose the shrivelled, beating heart.
He stared at the vivisection,
and smiled grimly.
He fell in his own blood, unmoving.
Dead, and finally free.
From the Song of Life and its torment.
Free in the arms of Death.
In its emptiness,
and its silence.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Death's Literary Competition
These were written for Achaea. For a competition. Subject was, "Death".
Dawn
As the dreary, thin tendrils of dawn
steal upon the frosted, wintry landscape,
a face is illuminated, long; thin; overdrawn.
His heaving chest, his half-beaten heart, about to capitulate.
Pulling aside the folds of his black cotton cloak,
his stiff fingers grasp at the locket hidden within.
Alas, the hypothermia was too large, too heavy to bear.
His decadent body gave way and he collapse therein.
Barely catching breath, his fingers struggled.
The bony, frozen appendages shivering and blue, prised the locket apart.
His failing eyes searched the cold metal's surface,
resting upon the visage of a woman of such ambrosiac beauty, it warmed his heart.
Tears flowed freely, tears that sapped precious energy.
Yet, they invigorated as they did enervate.
He knew then he must pass, alone and desolate.
Never to once more gaze upon her, whose soul was pure and celibate.
With this final act, his mind, his soul was appeased.
Clutching the gold to his chest, he whispered, “Farewell and good-bye”.
He laid down in the snow and spread his arms out wide.
Breathed in the break of dawn,
and began to die.
His Caress
When the night falls,
the cold, breathless rattle of the wind
and the thin, pale fingers of the trees
rake and scrape across the flesh, chillingly.
It is then when a hand steals silently,
stealthily over the land, searching.
Ever searching for souls of those whose time
are up.
The ever eager ebon fingers yearn.
They yearn for the souls of men.
Souls which are crushed in the firm, vice-grip of Lord Thoth.
Souls which shall never see the light of day,
forevermore.
He, who is impartial yet unyielding,
natural.
None shall he oversee and none shall from his grasp escape.
Not one evil Mhaldorian nor a foolish Shallamite.
For every Beginning,
there must be an End.
For every Life,
there must be Death.
Twisted Criminal
These dank, desolate streets,
filthy with grime.
These dark, dirty alleyways,
rampant with crime.
A beggar girl,
slain, immorally defied.
The depraved,
which society denied.
A philanthropist,
abducted and desecrated.
His abductor,
disillusioned and dissected.
A plump lamb,
brought to the slaughter.
Butchered by man,
to feed joyous laughter.
An innocent maid,
her life taken.
The smitten master,
horribly shaken.
A hindered handicap,
his throat viciously slit.
The murderer,
whom many more shall meet.
Crimes against humanity,
Crimes against morality.
The Black City.
Unnatural death.
Dawn
As the dreary, thin tendrils of dawn
steal upon the frosted, wintry landscape,
a face is illuminated, long; thin; overdrawn.
His heaving chest, his half-beaten heart, about to capitulate.
Pulling aside the folds of his black cotton cloak,
his stiff fingers grasp at the locket hidden within.
Alas, the hypothermia was too large, too heavy to bear.
His decadent body gave way and he collapse therein.
Barely catching breath, his fingers struggled.
The bony, frozen appendages shivering and blue, prised the locket apart.
His failing eyes searched the cold metal's surface,
resting upon the visage of a woman of such ambrosiac beauty, it warmed his heart.
Tears flowed freely, tears that sapped precious energy.
Yet, they invigorated as they did enervate.
He knew then he must pass, alone and desolate.
Never to once more gaze upon her, whose soul was pure and celibate.
With this final act, his mind, his soul was appeased.
Clutching the gold to his chest, he whispered, “Farewell and good-bye”.
He laid down in the snow and spread his arms out wide.
Breathed in the break of dawn,
and began to die.
His Caress
When the night falls,
the cold, breathless rattle of the wind
and the thin, pale fingers of the trees
rake and scrape across the flesh, chillingly.
It is then when a hand steals silently,
stealthily over the land, searching.
Ever searching for souls of those whose time
are up.
The ever eager ebon fingers yearn.
They yearn for the souls of men.
Souls which are crushed in the firm, vice-grip of Lord Thoth.
Souls which shall never see the light of day,
forevermore.
He, who is impartial yet unyielding,
natural.
None shall he oversee and none shall from his grasp escape.
Not one evil Mhaldorian nor a foolish Shallamite.
For every Beginning,
there must be an End.
For every Life,
there must be Death.
Twisted Criminal
These dank, desolate streets,
filthy with grime.
These dark, dirty alleyways,
rampant with crime.
A beggar girl,
slain, immorally defied.
The depraved,
which society denied.
A philanthropist,
abducted and desecrated.
His abductor,
disillusioned and dissected.
A plump lamb,
brought to the slaughter.
Butchered by man,
to feed joyous laughter.
An innocent maid,
her life taken.
The smitten master,
horribly shaken.
A hindered handicap,
his throat viciously slit.
The murderer,
whom many more shall meet.
Crimes against humanity,
Crimes against morality.
The Black City.
Unnatural death.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
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