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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

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Posted

Down in the depths where no man goes,

Down in the depths where it always snows,

Lies a dead girl all alone,

Cold as ice and soft as stone.

 

Pale dead face sees me with hate,

To see her always is my fate,

No matter how hard I might try,

I'll see her face until I die.

 

Silent voices in my head,

Telling me I should be dead,

Repeating that which I already know,

That I should have been the first to go.

 

She out lived the knives my brother sent,

Made me think my life well spent,

But in the last she was killed by a car,

Life extinguished like a falling star.

 

Why wasn't I the first to go?

It should have been me amidst the snow,

Instead she went when nine and ten,

Nevermore for me to see again.

Posted (edited)

Is this about ...

I'll ask you on IRC.

 

You've fared well through this time;

I like the rythym that it makes.

The rhyme scheme is fine, and I really like the line

soft as stone

*Hugs*

Edited by Vlad
Posted

I find it very hard to comment on work I know to be very personal to the writer, this being one such occasion. It is a dramatically written piece, the soft as stone reference causing you to stop and check to see you had read it right.

 

The form and rhythm both work and it flows just fine. I just feel so deeply for you and the pain the work represnts.

 

*Hugs*

Posted

Accusing eyes of emerald green,

Telling me what should have been,

Walking arm in arm with death,

Never again to draw a breath.

 

Invisible claws grab my hand,

Tearing off my golden band,

The hawk in flight has lost its heart,

Always alone, always apart.

 

The bright blue sky holds clouds for me,

My enemies close eventually,

Thier laughter tears away my soul,

Now they've accomplished thier dark goal.

 

However hard I may try,

I'll see her face until I die,

It haunts my dreams each lonely night,

Filling me with painful fright.

Posted

Like I said, ramblings. Never said they made sense

 

The pale faces surrounding me.

The dead hands reaching for me.

The eyes of accusation staring at me.

The steps of death chasing me.

 

The press of fear surrounding me.

The heat of anger warming me.

The ache of loss weakning me.

The price of my failure indebting me.

 

The golden hawk with broken wings.

The quarterstaff with metal sheath.

The rising sun in red and gold.

The House of Duras standing proud.

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