Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site

What to All

Poetry By: ziddy6
Poetry



A poem about... well, figure it out yourself.


Submitted:May 27, 2013    Reads: 17    Comments: 1    Likes: 2   


There is no knife,

Though the wound is there,

A patch of red,

A sea of red,

A garnished valley of fertile ground.

This mistaken crest where a moon does shine,

Where a dead drought brings no desire,

And no desire is needed in this land of happy times,
So think a few.

The blacksmith wields another woe,

Cast of iron, the perfect blade,

The perfect lost, the perfect gone.

The perfect is branded by the death of a fawn.
She convulses and spits unto valley snow

Where the villagers bring bring blankets

To warm an unbeating heart.

To quell an act to them unfaced.

A glory to some,

A mirth to all.

Soon the fawn's forest is eaten by flame and the fire, it breathes.

The village is flooded, the valley well-housed,

The sprawling cities gone dark with the sun.

A building has toppled and with it the rest,

Sick with greed to be the first to fall.

A leveling of the earth.

by Jacob A. P.
5-26-13





2

| Email this story Email this Poetry | Add to reading list



Reviews

About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.