Archive for Nov, 2014

A Bloody Legacy

WorldofHarley

skullsnake

I stand here surrounded by all these corpses.
Caked in blood,
Loving crimson blood.
I knew these people,
Loved all of them.
I knew her with the slit throat.
I knew him with his skull caved in.
I knew the two with their heads missing.
I knew that one with a broken neck,
And this one here with a bullet hole in his face.
Family and friends.

I killed them to be remembered.
They’ll report about me.
Plaster me all over the news,
My very own bloody soapbox.
They’ll hate me,
They’ll love me.
Spread my legend.
Serial killer they’ll call me.

This bloodbath is my magnum opus.
My blades singing were my masterstrokes.
My claws around their throats were my crowning achievement.
My gunfire was my chef d’oeuvre.
The bloodstains are my masterpieces.
This is what I was born for.
This massacre is my bloody legacy.

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Tarquin

Posted: Nov 7, 2014 in Poems, Random thoughts, Reblogs, Writing

Tarquin

WorldofHarley

IMAG0003

Tarquin was an ungrateful butler,

His Master, kindly,

His Master, wrong crowd,

His Master, unlucky,

His Master, impoverished,

His Master, unable to pay,

His Master, begging,

His Master, decapitated,

His Master, mutilated,

His Master, buried,

His Master, long gone,

His Mistress, next,

Tarquin was an ungrateful butler.

IMAG0001

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Swords

Posted: Nov 7, 2014 in Poems, Random thoughts, Reblogs, Writing

Swords

WorldofHarley

Picture 145

What is a sword to you?
What does a blade signify to you?
A forgotten relic?
An archaic weapon?
A pointless lump of metal?
An undeniable threat?

Rapiers and Katanas,
Do they not strike you as anything but graceful as angels?
Gladii and Xiphoi,
Are they not venerable as any sage?
Longswords and Scimitars,
Are they not the stuff of heroes?
Dirks and Zweihanders,
Are they not vengeful and unforgiving?

Swords can be as gods,
Ending lives on a whim,
Or in sinister prolonged exchanges.
Swords are the most devoted of companions,
Never betraying,
Defending until they shatter.
Swords are regarded as heroes,
Displayed for the masses in museums.
Swords can be ideals and banners,
Inspiring the people in spirit,
Acting as a blade to the hearts of tyrants.

Swords of all sizes and shapes,
Designs and lethality,
Conventional and exotic,
Pristine or blood-soaked,
Valiant or murderous,
Offensive or defensive.

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When the bitter times come,
Like a winter in your life,
You may retreat into your mind,
You may board a dark train of thought,
Its windows blackened,
And smokestack spouting your old secrets.

It’s a runaway train,
Soaring along serpentine rails,
Built upon things you did and didn’t do,
Promises kept and promises broken,
Ideas fair and ideas forbidden,
It runs unabated despite your protests.

You descend further,
Your thoughts contort as if alive,
You travel further down the carriages,
Its booths full of lost souls,
You watch as your hope and optimism hurtle past,
Like stations bypassed.

Your train of thought surges forth,
Bleak and pitiful,
There is no getting off.

Train