Category: Poetry

When I was young, I built a throne of roses,
and said, “One day it’ll be I who sits
there, with a scepter of silver
in my hands and a beaded
crown woven into my hair.”

But shadows are tricky creatures, my friend,
and they stretched across the lands
with fingers that drained the blood
from my skin and cast
my heart in dusk.

Now I am old, and sit upon a throne of thorns,
with broken glass plaited
into my hair, and a bone dagger
in my hands that weeps
tears of red.

The wizened crow sang me a song
of blue fire that
melts the flesh off your bones,
and violet mountains that hunger
for the sky. I did not know
what any of that meant
at the time, but I smiled,
and nodded.

The wizened crow sang me a song
of needles that fly
and pierce the skin of the earth
and broken bows that fling
their sorrow into
the sea. I laughed, for
it did not make any sense
to me.

The wizened crow sang me a song
of assassins who weep
and armies that crumble to dust
in the heat of battle, before the
sun bleeds over their corpses. I
shook my head
and walked away, for it
was all nonsense.

The wizened crow sang me a song
of a fate further
than the stars, and a lonely wanderer
reaching into the dark,
with nothing but the snow on her back
and a heart in her hands.
I looked at him, and wondered
why.

The wizened crow sang me a song
of crippled worlds
and torn puppet strings, and at first
I didn’t hear him.
But now I sit
and train my ears, and
all I do is
listen.

Welp, here’s a free-verse. I wanted to try my hand on a “speed” poem, so I didn’t take any more than ten minutes on this.