Trembling in tatters,
the child pretends
that the world and its monsters
are all her friends.
Whispering in wind,
the child relies
on the words in her books
that tell only lies.
Forgotten by family,
shaking, the child
hooks her cloak round her head
in silent exile.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
I shall take what is mine
by the throne of the gods —
and how can you resist
when you’re at such odds?
You call it corruption,
I call it my right —
you taint it as tyranny,
I say it’s my might!
Come at me demon,
by ye desire or death —
dare strike me down,
dare steal my breath!
Come at me, corruption,
give wind to my wings —
and bow to your maker,
swear oath to your king!
For I know your weakness,
I’ve read your sign,
and by the throne of the gods
I shall take what is mine.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
in sleep there are no mysteries
that dash and dim the glass of dreams
there’s only time untold to eyes
for treading through such reveries
unwinds the truth for what it seems
and fantasy tells no lies
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
What is worth our agony
if not the glory that will be
seized from stone in steely fort
and forged from molten foes cut short?
Is it worth our agony
to bloody limbs whilst bending knee
before a marble man who stands
upon the backs of his right hands?
Tell me, what is agony
but a dead man’s twisted plea
that drowns in rushing copper cries
until the slave’s last whimper dies?
Who is spared from agony?
I tell you, neither you or me —
for honor makes fools of us all,
bound by oath until we fall.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
We who tread through endless night
and know the secrets of the earth,
we who bear the spirit light
and hold the threads of death and birth.
We who’ve touched the untold planes
and sang the songs of gods undone,
we who’ve mastered wind and rain
and forged great power from the sun.
We who conjure back from bleak
ancient hymns both blessed and tragic,
we who never cease to seek —
we who practice and preach magic.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
My arrow is my eye,
it looses with a sigh,
I follow it and know where it
will land before it flies.
Crunching armor, broken blades batter,
steel’s a charmer, it doesn’t matter —
a soldier’s game is rough and unrefined;
but an archer’s blow is dealt with her mind.
Once in the knee,
twice in the chest,
go for the throat
and your chances are best —
pick off the weak,
put down the frail,
mock the muscle
aim through the mail!
My arrow is my eye,
it glares across the sky,
I follow it and see through it
for the arrow, true, is I.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
A born a day of rags and fray, I smelled a hearth in th’ air —
what smells a hearth? why, dogs of course!
and be a dog, I dare.
Such smoke led south ‘round weeping wastes,
and up past yonder hill —
and dancing in the blaze so chaste
be the Maid of Ruby Rill!
She twirled her skirts and called my name, and long a gasp I sighed —
be she a nymph? a siren wraith?
for hooked I was inside.
Honeyed words she kissed my way,
and fierce I felt a thrill —
and what possessed me then to pray
for the Maid of Ruby Rill?
Sweet as sour-grass her song; warm as winter her grin —
but what of flames? did not she blaze?
how white still shone her skin!
Then deep within my core I yearned
and leapt to touch her still —
but crimson bit my hand and burned
my dear Maid of Ruby Rill.
Blackness bled into her eyes, serpentine her smile curled —
what form be this? a trick? a guise?
taunting, her tail unfurled.
Shocked my heart and swiped my breath,
I yelped a plea so shrill —
“Sweet lady, now be not my death!”
to the Maid of Ruby Rill.
A knee I took to hold her gaze, and hands I pressed in prayer —
“what sin is mine? is craving a crime?
speak now or I’ll despair!”
With twisted lips she smirked in ire,
and whispered words of ill —
“Damned are you to tend my fire
here in Ruby Rill!”
A born a day of rags and fray, I sold my heart to her —
what sells a heart? why, slaves of course!
and slave I was, assured.
Of years nothing but dust remains,
but her hearth dances still —
for I have fed and fueled the flames
of the Maid of Ruby Rill.
I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas and holiday season! If you don’t celebrate Christmas, then hopefully it was a lovely time nonetheless. I haven’t posted anything for two whole weeks (gasp! I know!), but am finally getting back into the swing of things. Today I have for you a poem (actually, a song) that was written for my current fantasy series. I originally approached it with every intention of writing a silly, carefree tavern song — but it quickly developed a darker, more serious tone (as so many of my poems do).
Happy writing! 🙂
Here at the end of this smoke-strung land,
where the wind drags its teeth ‘cross my skin,
my grasp on reality numbs in my hands
as the blighting hoarfrost buries in.
Cold is custom at the end of the world,
and betwixt my blue fingers I warm,
a bloodstone, a sunstone, polished and pearled,
to thaw off the sleet and the storm.
I dream of a fire at the end of the night
that’ll soften the ice in my marrow;
I dream of a love shed in sweet silver light,
who’ll return to me from the barrow.
Here at the end of this bitter white land
I search through endless freeze for the dawn;
I cannot reclaim the warmth in my hands,
so with winter in heart, I march on.
© 2014 Stellular Scribe
In obsidian nights
when the rain lashes cold,
the wanderer weeps through the land.
All hear his plight,
as the twilight grows old;
in tempest, how can he withstand?
First come the stars,
like eyes in the sky,
looking down on the traveler’s trail.
Sanguine and simple,
they smile in surprise,
and gentle they breathe on the gale.
Then wakens the moon,
veiled in velvet and light
and his face chases shadows away.
Mystic, his guidance
leads the stray through the blight,
’round rivals and out of the gray.
In silence, the sun
overlooks her domain,
and sees the roamer wet and cold.
Sagely, she spreads
her arms ‘cross the plains,
to embrace and warm him in gold.
In amber morrow,
when the weather has waned,
the wanderer sings to the skies.
None hear his sorrow,
for the Three banished pain,
and in joy, he strikes his reprise.
This is a song written for my work-in-progress. I really enjoy song-writing (especially when it’s for fantasy fiction), and find that it’s helpful in world-building and culture-creating. I also like to actually write the music for my songs; most of the time I use medieval styles, intervals, and instruments to establish its melody and harmony.
It’s probably difficult to understand the overall message of this song when taken out of context (though you can probably interpret it in multiple ways). Basically, the realm that my w.i.p. takes place in worships three fictional gods who take the form of the sun, moon, and stars. This would be a hymn sung in the Temple or by traveling minstrels.
Everything ends when it rains.
This I know.
We can paint a field brilliant red,
streaked in tar and bile and bits,
but when the sky tears itself to shreds
and releases its fury in torrents and fits-
the evidence is drained.
When it rains.
We can ripen our quarrels for years on end
with hot irons and sharpening stones,
but it’ll all mean nothing when the floods descend
to quench our fury with thunderous moans-
there’s nothing more to show.
This I know.
For everything ends when it rains.
Stellular Scribe 