The Tale Of Forgotten Kingdom

On the cold mountain, we wait,

With two fists full of winter smoke.

Before the moment of past glory,

Repeating itself like two diligent arms,

Of a subservient clock,

We burned with precision.

Under the cover of withered rocks,

Churning the memories of ruin of past,

Flickering lights of red speak.

The lights inflicted,

With molten than revolutionized steel,

Red lights unheard by all but you,

And me.

The tale of forgotten kingdom, and

An ancestry long forgotten,

Whispered only by you,

Fed ironically by parasites,

Like us.

**

Via Daily Prompt: Churn

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The Man Who Created His Own Purgatory

From an ancestry long forgotten,
Into the land of his own scorched earth,
The one he burned himself,
Behind the mountains of his own terror,
There stands a man.

With his blades high,
And terror storming in his mind,
There he screams.

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And with each swing of the blade,
And with each thrashing of the soul,
And with his splatter of blood,
Swirling in the air from his blade,
He stands, frozen, and yet agile.

There he stands, the man we call
Unreal.
The man who creates his own purgatory,
The man who carves his own heaven,
The man who fuels his own hell.
The man who fights the proverbial truth
Etched in grooves of his palms.

When the dust settles,
There he stands,
Under the sunken sky,
An epitome of you,
And me.

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**

via Daily Prompt: Talisman

A True War Story

A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things men have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil. ”

― Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried.

A Melody of Tears

Land charred with the smoke of hope, dirt moist by red.

A valley filled with mist of anguish.

Tamed memories. Abandoned flesh. Sunken eyes. Soaked with hatred, naked, lonely days and treacherous nights stripped of life.

This is a tale, a single cry, of ashes dissolving into the land, a melody of tears, the day of red and black.

These are the visions of Great War.

Continue reading “A Melody of Tears”