The Prophecy — an original poem

We bend our backs to the silver tide,
to the tide that turns the years —
the tide for which the old gods died
and wrung war out of tears.

We turn our eyes to the roiling night,
to the night that never ends —
the night in which we taste the blight
that in our dreams transcend.

We hone our ears to the coming song,
to the song that spans the land —
the song for which we must be strong,
for the prophecy so planned.

© 2015 Stellular Scribe

Oh Rose

Oh Rose, will you wake from your slumber?
Oh Rose, will you climb from the dirt?
There are shadows approaching;
they darken the sun —
Oh Rose, find your root, take the world.

Oh Rose, do you know they are praying?
Oh Rose, they are crying for you!
Their hearts, how they’ve blackened,
so they tend your soil —
Oh Rose, spread your petals, pursue.

Oh Rose, what is it that you’ve done?
Oh Rose, there is blood on your hands!
You choked from the earth
the spirits sheltered  —
Oh Rose, steel your stem and withstand.

Oh Rose, have you heard the people talking?
Oh Rose, they condemn you for dead!
Your thorns have grown long
and strangled the land —
Oh Rose, they’re coming, duck your head.

Oh Rose, you must go into hiding.
Oh Rose, you must strike from the dark.
The shadows are creeping,
their souls restless now.
Oh Rose, you must free them, embark! 

© 2015 Stellular Scribe

I Shall Take What is Mine — an original poem

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

Agony — an original poem

"Song of Battlefield" by Norimichi Tanaka
Song of Battlefield” by Norimichi Tanaka

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