Posts Tagged ‘history’

This world is split into petty fiefdoms,
Swathes of land divided haphazardly,
Lines painted in blood and oil,
An unnatural barrier with great sway,
With the common folk cut betwixt masters,
Made unwilling foes,
A race split into us and them,
Fighting wars over borders pencilled in by dead men,

As they laugh in their coffins,
Already bedded with their winnings,
These lines,
Their artistic carving of dirt,
Impels us to be unwitting conscripts,
Speaking in munitions rather than parlance,
Trading antagonisms as readily as grain,
Dividing us ever further.

To those of us about to die,
To each patriot and scallywag among our number,
To the men sailing for King and country,
Fair winds and following seas,

To those lads about to be run through,
The bodies soon to be broken and burned,
The men butchered by shrapnel and cannon,
Fair winds and following seas,

To those mothers and widows-to-be,
The saints left on home soil,
Those with newly cold beds,
Fair winds and following seas,

To those who’ll survive though mangled,
Cursed with phantom limbs and shellshock,
To the victims whose minds are now ravaged,
Fair winds and following seas,

To those names laid in granite before me,
To those lads who have earned a final rest,
Now upon clouds or burning in flames,
Fair winds and following seas.

Part of the same ‘universe’ as “Hedge Knight“.

During that war betwixt would-be monarchs,
There was one knight who stood monolithic,
The blackguard,
A ghastly terror on and off the hills of battle,
They say he was in love with death herself,

Where his sabatons fell,
All hope finds itself stifled,
A pall of dark smog coats the sky,
Flowers wilt and grass withers,
Game flees out of sight,

And he approached our hamlet,
Decay walking into our agora in full plate,
Zweihander in clenched fist,
Already caked in the wine of loyalist bodies,
His courser slavering and exhaling grave dust,

We could only flee our homes,
Displaced by this effigy of doom,
This horror,
The reapers husband in the flesh,
If he were flesh at all.

From the poppy,
To a brown dose of liquid,
To the tongue in distress,
In agony,

Prescribed from the cabinet of a backstreet quack,
To a tincture of proto-morphine,
To a mind in need of rest,
Of sleep,

From a stolen concoction of opium,
To the hidden stash of liquor and heroin,
To the den of an addict poisoned,
Passed away.

Atop a statue once depicting liberty,
Perches a foul creature,
An avian actor,
Decaying piece by ruinous piece,
A scavenger feigning regality,
A vulture wearing the feathers of an eagle,
Mould and droppings falling upon a flag,

Nonetheless this animal is loved and reviled both,
Regarded in both sycophantic and tyrannical aviaries,
It wants not for fodder,
The carcass of a republic lies below,
So it rends at putrid meat no longer protected,
Picking at the scraps of the citizenry,
The flesh of a populace with potential,

Each wing of this beast is dyed an opposing shade,
One crimson,
The other a dull blue,
Battling over which part to gnaw at,
Even as they rot and fester,
But make no mistake,
Both factions are wings of the same rotten vulture.

A relic was rent from the Earth,
Petrified and earnest within,
Once contains life,
But now a coiled tombstone,
A vision of the past in each radial segment,
Oracular sights in each fossilised tinge,
Mounts and continents long eroded,
Behemoths lost to the dirt,

This ammonite,
This serpentstone,
Left stopped in time during a prehistoric dance,
Dull turquoise in a waltz with emerald and violet,
It’s a spiral reminder,
To a time long gone,
A time before the modern plague descended,
Industrial ages stealing the Earths future years.

Among those fearsome boreal raiders,
When a warrior falls,
Respects must be paid,
For a warrior to rest easy,
Like a toll to the reaper,
A gift to the hereafter,
Like any legendary fighter has a moniker,
A warriors sword too has a name,
A hero in its own right,
And like any partner would hope for,
It was interred beside him,
The warriors sword was bent double,
Granted a warriors death itself,
And covered in the same graveyard dirt,
To lay still in the same valhalla.

Evil can rest behind a smiling face,
An amicable face,
Even a handsome face,
Charisma is the tool of a monster,
Just as a blade or garotte,
Yet more savage,
More cutting,
That was Ted,

Too many souls taken in by a friendly smirk,
A mask hiding thoughts of violation and murder,
Sugared words upon a serpents tongue,
Caught too late,
Highlighting the fell reality,
That fiends hide in plain sight,
Psychopathy cloaked in friendship,
That was Ted.

I find myself too close to the frontline,
A contest between two flags,
I see flames encroaching on the horizon,
The heat grins upon my cheeks,
Scalding like impending doom,
These highlands are a no-go zone,
A board game too close to a fireplace,
The stage of a ruinous romp,
The two flags converse here in mushroom clouds,
Talking points at destructive decibels,
Airstrike arguments,
And howitzer handshakes,

I dare not linger,
These men in high castles care not for the little guy,
They propel uranium darts at this wasteland board,
Collateral damage upon their tongues,
Before kissing above the carnage they wrought.

Death haunts the depths,
A manmade shark,
A machine of war fathoms down,
In the cold below,
It is on the trail of prey,
A cyclopean eye guiding the way,
Stalking those unaware seals of steel above,
Merchant ship or frigate,
Following the reverberations of their iron lungs,
The word is given,
Doom is silently unleashed at knots,
And once the hunt is over,
And the prey is scrap metal,
Fade like orcas into the dark.