Pinned against the back of war,
battle has strung my neck —
there are no words unsullied by
the sting of steel in flesh.
I cannot move my legs no more,
the groans have grown too tall —
for the mail I wear is linked with lead
and each bitter sin I haul.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
after
smoke has settled
and the ground’s soaked up the red
after
night has tucked her blade
and left to break her bread
after
all the wanderers
have lined up foot to head
after
I have buried them
and laid them into bed
I am not my father’s son
though he may stir and grip his gun
I am not the army’s man
I left them long ‘fore I began
I am not a child of war
though hardened is my heart to gore
I am just the aftermath, you see.
after
words have crumbled
and there’s no one left to weep
after
time has torn apart
what we once swore to keep
after
all the wayfarers
have drifted fast asleep
after
I have wondered why
my song had not been reaped
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
A word
is a double-edged sword,
for it rings clear and true,
but stings with
a red smile.
Me? I am
no wielder of hammers-
I seek not to shriek rusted
blade against blade
beneath the shadow
of the gallows.
I deliver
my attack with callous lips
and loose my barrage
as grave silence
glowers on.
I am
loved by some, and loathed
by most, but my duty
beneath the blight
remains the same.
This battle
is not one of arms and axes,
but one of reading lips
and sometimes
reading minds.
I am
good at playing the part
of the fading ghost who
haunts abandoned
battlefields and
beds atop tombs.
They need
not see me, so long
as they listen, for
I forge and fight with
the deadliest weapon-
a word.
This bloodied blade is cleaner than I,
for its hilt still gleams like the day
it was forged, with black eyes of
diamond encrusted in
its body and silver
steel strewn
along its
neck.
These
hands of mine
are bloodier than
my blade, for they’ve seen
the red clash of war and passed
over countless weeping women and
babes, without daring to beg forgiveness
for being the one who silenced their sons.
I am not controlled
by the worming beast that nests
within my body.
I am stronger still
for the scathing claws it wields
can never rule me.
I will never stop
waging my long fought battle
against its army.
I am more than this
disease, so its fatal hands
won’t ever mold me.
I recently lost someone young to cancer, and I’ve been reflecting a lot on her message lately. Though I never knew her that well, she was always so cheery and positive, and made everyone feel like they were her best friend. Which I think was true; she was best friends with everyone. And more than anything, she never let the disease rule her. This string of haikus is my feeble attempt at paying tribute to her and her incredible and heartbreaking journey.
Your breath is like ashes
that flake off your lips
and your voice is the smoke
that shades an eclipse.
With words blacker than blood
you streak the sky red
and your eyes burn a fire
that devours the dead.
The white mask you model
serves a waxen shield
that born against virtue
wrecks the playing field.
Lies act as your arrows
and spite is your mace,
my steel and rusted words
crumble in their place.
But my armor’s iron
and plated with gold
so your blade won’t bite me
or melt down my mold.
This black battle you wage
with crimson-tipped spears
is all smoke and cinders
that thaw futile fears.
For the crows you unleash
to pick at the dead
leave my body intact
and tear yours instead.
They painted me red
in a sea of black,
and I laughed, I think, as I fought them back.
My steel kissed more flesh
than iron and stone,
but I’m not a killer, at least, not on my own.
I won’t be remembered
as gallant and brave,
for this crimson snow shall bury my grave.
But it makes no difference
that I live or fall,
I would say my friends were dead, if I had any at all.
They bit out our pride
as they burned our barricade,
but I was immortal, you see, I couldn’t fade.
Now the sky spits fire
on a sea of roiling reds,
and moaning ghost ships wave their flags in shreds.
I’m accustomed to pain,
Agony’s but a quest,
I’d get up, mind you, if not for these arrows in my chest.
I have not been beaten,
my soul’s not yet reaped,
But I’m weary, you see, all I want is to sleep.
They painted me red
as the stars smiled on,
I may die here, I think, but I’ll never be gone.
Stellular Scribe 