The Stain of History upon its Authors
Steaming and foaming. Burning in the fields are the crass fools who gave out and passed away. Independent of retrospect, none looked upon the pages of history to see the future written on stale pages No One ever wrote. There she was with pale white hair as silver as greed's drug. She read the words and wrote them down. She saw what was and what had been and painted it upon her memory. Calling for the angel thrown far from the grasps of shadows, she asked him to lay down his sword and write down the words she could not write. Giving her a pale feather from his golden wings as a quill, it soon became stained black with ink, same as her hands. With sacrifice author and angel, became stained by the history they were compelled to write.
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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...
