Poetry

Paths
The trees do not betray,
though the paths between them diverge,
and the way is lost.

Hate
What hate
they spend
on me
I allow them
to waste.
Mine is not
to give
but take,
and take all
they expend,
until no more
is there life
in them.

The Fortunate Few
The fortunate few are as cursed
by fortune or ill fate; the view
hinged upon which side of the gate
one stands in the mired stain.

Demons
What tears at our souls
comes not from the outer dark,
nor from flames below;
but borne on black wings
of desires from within

Golden Sacrifices
Golden mountain peaks,
frost hoary valleys;
bones of the ancients
crumble under time,
it’s eternal weight.
All soldiers sacrificed to the gods of war.

To War
Warriors gather your arms,
Embrace the women’s fair charms,
Kiss away their alarms—no lament
Leave hearth home intent for harms!

Fires
A fire snaps burning cold,
memories burn and scratch.
What I’ve lived, unseen
by kings and queens
who marched
us all to death.

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