What to All

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem about... well, figure it out yourself.

Submitted: May 27, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 27, 2013



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.





© Copyright 2020 ziddy6. All rights reserved.

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