poetry

There was

a poem

here.

It's gone now.

[This post has been removed by the author. If you wish to read it, please contact me directly.]

Through light of moon and star be seen,
the shine on metal helm and axes keen.
For sons are armed with mail and shield,
and weapons laden with runes they wield.
Farewell they say to kin and mansions grand,
if the Longbeards march to the Dark Lord's land.

The sun has already began to climb,
And already have we wasted time.
We keep our pace and march ahead,
To reach our goal so do not fret.

To war or kin we may now go,
With axe in hand we walk in tow.
Our packs may weigh and feet may feel,
Yet dwarves keep strong despite ordeal.

A gravel path or stone paved way,
We must march on without dismay.
Our halls await with open door,
So before the dusk we walk some more.

What even the morning dew does not betray,
are those who passed through in bygone day.
With feet unclothe they walked forth unseen,
in their step leaving blade of grass like it had been.
Of their passing the eldest trees might not talk,
yet ever fond of the time when elves did walk.

My seething fury

Festers,

Rushing through these veins

Like a ravenous parasite.

There was

a poem

here.

It's gone now.

[This post has been removed by the author. If you wish to read it, please contact me directly.]

There was

a poem

here.

It's gone now.

[This post has been removed by the author. If you wish to read it, please contact me directly.]

There was

a poem

here.

It's gone now.

[This post has been removed by the author. If you wish to read it, please contact me directly.]

Are we still rising?

With song and dance,

Celebrating our vanity?