Poetry

Truce

Where there should be the hunter there is only a cat,

Where there should be the prey there is only a rat,

One is reliably not a mouser,

And the other… well he is far from a mouse, sir.

They twiddle their thumbs,

And sit on their bums,

For there is no way to further excuse,

The shared ruse of a truce.

Monstrous

Monster in the mist

Crawling to meet the sunlight

With its great black wings

And its withered reaching claws

To you, it seeks your being

Night of the Betrayed Dead

A hand breaks the ground

Like an earthquake it breaches

Decayed and betrayed

Rotting fingers reach for him

They grab nothing for he is gone

Lovers

Two swords meet at the center of the field,

Neither party truly feels the need to yield,

With pressure amassed,

And feelings abashed.

The white knight dances,

And the blue knight prances,

Sword and shield raised high,

The fight until the day turns nigh.

Weary and bleeding,

One of them is kneeling,

His helm is cast aside,

And there he sees his bride.