The Journeyman - Chapter One

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A peace summit is invaded by terrorists. The killing of the national leader causes the appearance of a strange scarred man. A violent opening to an epic story in verse.

Any feedback is welcomed and appreciated.

Submitted: June 26, 2008

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Submitted: June 26, 2008



Chapter One - The Scarred Man

What has been will be, and what has been done is what will be done. There is nothing new beneath the sun – Ecclesiastes 1:9

Daybreak, where night becomes the dawn, and spring grass glitters with the dew,
Where cirrus clouds are streaked like silken webs across the blue,
And the leaves are coaxed unfurled by the sparkling ambiance
While blood lays viscous on the ground over some perceived importance.

Springs morning breeze is slightly chill, but brisk, and hints of pleasant noon
A bush of roses budding leads to thoughts of summer coming soon
A wall of neatly interlocking stone snakes across the rolling hill
The fog of night evaporates, although the fog of war, it hangs there still.

A vibrant morn of floral scent and sunlight streams in rising haze
That seems ablaze, a crystal fire, dancing in the rays
Reflecting on the field in blood now dowsed. The green grass cut, it glistens red
Where men that numbered many standing, number many dead.

A trouble saw the trees, leaving leaders knelt and killers few,
Without a reference point to know which cause is just, or truth is true
To some, the bushes seem alive when stare back cursed eyes,
Who could know the morning shadow is but dark disguise.

The cursed eyes, they watch, and wait, and flicker ‘cross the field
The cursed eyes, they creep and sneak around the bloody field,
Spectate the play of life, a scripted dance to be revealed
Of fates that will be sealed in time, across the bloody field

A trouble saw the cursed eyes, a foggy breath of recompense
Yet by the sword, a righteous word, it makes no righteous sense
For leaders of the western world, give cause to raise the ire of east,
And though a peace be signed this day, the ink has stirred the beast.

‘Twas here upon the national lawn that moon and cross are, in peace, joined
Before a castle laced with vine, to sign accords on neutral ground
Where camera crews report the news and thousands sit as witness
While secretly a traitor slips a lock, allowing brutal men an easy access

T’was here upon the national lawn, though all her men and all her horse,
Surround the ancient stone where dwells an aged dynastic force,
Therein the national palisades, where men with guns and sober mind,
Could not defend against this brutal kind.

The brutal in black masks are brothers, joined common cause of common men
Shedded blood and powered earth bond them in this day like Crispin
Laugh like band of brothers. Dance in joy, they chant and sing
They kill like brothers, echoes of each death though ancient stonewalls ring.

They rushed about with crimson haste, smoke and lightening flak
Incursion on a field, leaving only those with ample luck,
Some, they ran, but most fell quick, until the gunshots slowed their sound
And those with luck were forced on knees into the bloody ground

Here now the brothers howl like dogs above surrendered few that kneel
Judging them ‘neath twisted stare, a cold black hole of hollow steel
The moments pulse and beat and tick. Breath is faint though hearts pound fast,
For every breath the captured takes is less toward their last.

Here, three hours past break of dawn, historic hour when peace is born,
Surrendered to the brothers on the manicured green lawn
Submit to they with murdering cause, where none shall hear their cries
But one deep within the morning shadow, a man with cursed eyes.

Brothers in their righteous cause, the victor to the spoils go,
Yet cursed eyes that hide cares less which way the blood shall flow,
Or who is right, or wrong, or to their gods a cause more righteous,
‘They are,’ the cursed man says, ‘stupid men. Common as a parasitic louse.’

And yet he questions: should he let them die, executed one by one
By trinity of murder; a victim, executioner and his gun
‘So let it be,’ he says before the nations leader meets his helpless death
When lifts a murderers arm, and gunshot breaths a smoky breath

Let them fight for what is right, he says, and die, he says,
Let them think on what is right, and kill until they end their days
And let them…mortal bugs…this he curses as he says,
While his conscience smouldering erupts into a wicked blaze.

A daughter cries. Tis now that cursed eyes ignite within the shade.
When executioner struck her down, his fate is sealed and judgement made,
And if were ground a sea of blood, and were the air a mist of calm
Then port was from where blade was flung, that struck his gun stretched arm.

He screams, like trumpet call, this horrific entry herald,
When something terrifying rushed onto the bloody field
A man, if could be called a man, of extraordinary size
In truth a beast, a giant mangled figure, with black and cursed eyes

A man who face was scarred and rent, and torn, and burned and ripped,
A man whose flesh was ridged, and cut, and flayed and cruelly whipped,
And all that saw him lost their breath, snatched away by ridged fear.
Not one was without horror in their chest that saw him there.

The scarred man moves, a violent grace of subtle feline skill
When as the executioner cries, the first black masked brother falls
Whose head is grasped between two giant hand and twist,
Then pushed away, a giant boot is thrust into his chest.

Some knelt in place with hand locked firm behind their necks
Wondered the commotion going on behind their backs
They turned as black masked men screamed when cleaved in two,
Machete, easy as a knife through jelly cut them through.

As if by plan, the scarred man twists and takes the gun that dead men wield
And kills another with a shot before the first has hit the field,
A chaos like a fox with hen, cries and screams once more this morn,
Although now ‘tis the terrorist that dies on the national lawn.

Finally, he came upon the executioner
Who demanded the identity of the strange and scarred aggressor,
But his answer swiftly coming instilled in all a sickening dread
When with the steely blade, he separates the executioner from his righteous head.

And then he screamed
A hellish banshee roar, he screamed
Lifting head and blade into the air, like trophy to the cirrus cloud,
Though no remorse was known by the small, astonished crowd.

Then taking head he gave it to a man, and without another care,
Stopped short of wife and daughter and dead father premier,
Even while his action was a cruel and wicked violence
The woman unafraid, could somehow kindness sense

A pause for thought perhaps, the premier unto death consigned
But yet he turns, as if a voice were speaking from behind
A twinkle of a rueful eye, a softened glow like sleepy haze
Distant, the words upon a breeze, ‘Leave him be,’ he says.

The daughter grows a queer expression. What strange words to say.
By what authority, he speaks, this beast that kills in brutal way?
This man, who stopped before her, surrounded by a deathly still
That seems to touch her skin, wrapping her with deathly chill

But there’s a sparkle on his face; a twist of wicked grin,
A mix of kindness, although his eyes, they flash with murd’ring sin,
His throat emits a growl like a purr as raise a hand up to her chin
‘But not for long,’ he says, a dancing throaty voice, and strokes a finger on her skin.

But yet, by subtle spite and treachery, a single echoed crack,
Affecting scarred man; his cursed eyes roll up and back,
And lifeless, crumbles he to ground with a heavy slough like thud
Collapsing to the ground, dead among the blood and mud.

The gunshot echoes, sprints away, bounding over rolling hill,
And for a time the gathered few, stand in deathly still,
Astonished silence while a traitor spun a lie quick and tall
and said: ‘He was going to kill you! He would have killed us all!’

Silence falls.
No more echoes stony walls
No eye was strayed from traitors’ smoking gun,
And yet, his aura radiates a lie, as visible as morning sun

Perhaps it may have passed accepted, though strange lies wear thin disguise.
For it fails on foggy sign when strangers’ chest begins to rise,
But stranger still, a throaty growl. The stony walls growl with him,
The stranger stands and sways alive. The bloody grass, it sways with him,

“Not all,’ the scarred man growled, and nimbly on the traitors throat he reach
That would have been his death, except a scream, a halting voice beseech
A daughter taken over by an overwhelming day
‘Please!’ she cries, ‘There’s been enough killing here today.’

‘Enough? There’s never enough,’ he replies with scarred wit
‘You mortals never leave the blood soaked ground until you’re in it.’
‘Guns, religion, politics, it’s all the same, and who lives last’
‘That is your foul goal. The future is more the same as your bloody past.’

‘I don’t know who or what you are’ she said. ‘Or even if you came to save our lives
‘But save one more, and we’ll retain what little peace that still survives.”
He huffed but dropped him from his clasp, the traitor swaying in the breeze,
But as quick, he kicked and broke the traitors trembling knees.

He growls again, and to the daughter said: ‘Have your peace I say.
‘I’ve been here many times before, and I’ll be back again this way.
Then strangely, as he walks away dismisses someone standing there
‘Go complain to the ferryman. You have no further business here,‘ he huffs to empty air.

He took a brisk pace to the stony wall, and leapt it in a bound
While the field of blood reverberates with a coming siren sound
Leaving them reflecting on the field in blood while the green grass glistens red.
Where men that numbered many standing, now number many dead.

It is a strange calculation when daughter cries for father premier
Because there is one less dead, whose chest is sudden filled with air
His back arches, his body rise, though his head it wears a bloody mar
For the hole where bullet struck was closed, and in its place was left a remnant scar.

But even as she weeps, father wakens from his rest,
While calm awash her, brought by a hand that thinks her spirit blessed,
The shadow of the night descends. She falls into unwaking sleep,
And wakes into the shadow, where the darkness twists and evils creep.

A moment living in a nightmare, and now to wake in this dream strange
That is a new reality, where bright hues constantly arrange
And suddenly she silent screams, for the hand that brought her spirit here,
Was on her now, the hand of death, who with eyes of spite, upon her coldly stare.

End of chapter one - to be continued

© Copyright 2018 Journeyman. All rights reserved.

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