Brace the Fog
Ageless riders brace the fog
even death could not disguise.
Fallen red, spilt forth the ancient wine
from towering castle walls.
Give into Winter,
starve the plague,
lay as bones,
skin stretched thin.
Courage without loyalty,
wicked demons' spite.
Hands bonded to the hilt,
scabbards dressed in guilt,
rusted blades grind free.
Cutting down the common life,
blood staining the suicide knife.
Gutless cowards lay in wait,
white book stained greedy with hate.
Evil karma laps blood from the earth
as hunger rips and tears flesh.
A hideous fate for those who self-proclaim they're saints –
they burn the witches at the stake!
Do they heed not Hell?
YOU ARE READING
The Dragon Became a Modern Poetaster
PoetryPoetry is a dance of words, a guise of flesh, and a reprise of thought. The myths of old are forgotten on modern tongues. Such adventurous spirits seek new vessels - fresh words to don and call their own. We shall write them home, you and I. Let the...
