Depicting worlds, full in song or sorrow
The dead or the boy who shoots the arrow
Banners of war, unfurled in unholy rage.
The red slashings of the friend
The blood of the words ooze across paper
Blood and wounds of letters, bound by poet later
Until the ballad finds its end.
The sound of pen, healing the wound
Mending their broken red gashes
The crooked scrapes and raw scratches
The words honeyed by new courage found.
And though the warrior of the pen
Slips into the cold grasp of death
A speechless hand, an essence at rest
And the healed words say again:
"Even though we turn pale at age
Tested and withered be our page
Our voices, small and bold, breeze and thunder
We shall continue to speak of ageless wonder."
___________
Hehe. Wrote this last night. I'm a bit rusty right now, haven't written poetry for a good month or so. I also haven't had a chance to polish it.
As you should have guessed by now (shame on you if you have to ask what this is about!
~Sumi
