Dec 2015
Bʏɢօռɛ tʀɨɮɛsʍɛռ
Hɨɖɖɛռ ɮɛtաɨxt tɦɛ tɦɨċҡɛt;
Eʏɛ's քɨɛʀċɨռɢ ʟɨҡɛ ʍɨɖռɨɢɦt քaռtɦɛʀ's
Tɦɛɨʀ ʄɛatɦɛʀ's, ċօʟօʀʄʊʟ, ʀɨɢɨɖ.
Tɦɛʏ sɛɛɨtɦ tɦɛ ɨռʋaɖɛʀ's
Cօʍɨռɢ ʊքօռ tɦɛɨʀ sɦօʀɛ's,
Tɦɛɨʀ ʄʀɨɢɦtɛռɛɖ օʄ tɦɛ ʍɛtaʟ
Aռɖ ɦɛʟʍɛt's օʄ ɦɛʟʟ's stօʀʍ.
Tɦɛ ɖʀʊʍ ċɨʀċʟɛ stօք's
Tɦɛ ʍɛռ aռɖ աօʍɛռ stօք ɖaռċɨռɢ,
Tɦɛ ʄɨʀɛ ɮʊʀռɛtɦ ʟօա,
As tɨs ռօռɛ tɨʍɛ ʄօʀ ʀօʍaռċɨռɢ.
Tɦɛ Eʊʀօքɛaռ ɖɛatɦ ɮʀɨռɢɛʀ's
Tʀaʍքʟɛ saċʀɛɖ ɢʀօʊռɖ,
Tɦɛ ɢɦօsts օʄ օʟɖ
Iռɖɨaռ sօʊʟ's, ʍaʀċɦ աɨtɦ tɦɛ ʟɨʋɨռɢ tʀɨɮɛsʍɛռ
Tօ sɦaʍaռ sօʊռɖ's.
Dɛsɛċʀatɨօռ ɦatɦ ɮɛɢʊռ
Tɦɛ ɮʟօօɖ ɦatɦ ɮɛɛռ sքɨʟt.
Iռռօċɛռt ռatɨʋɛs, օʄ tɦɛɨʀ օառ ɦօʍɛʟaռɖ,
Raքɛɖ, քʟʊռɖɛʀɛɖ ɨռ ʄɨʟtɦ.
Tɦօʊ ċaռst stɨʟʟ ɦɛaʀɛtɦ tɦɛ Cʀʏ's օʄ tɦɛ ɮaɮɨɛs aռɖ աօʍɛռ,
As I ċaռst ɦɛaʀɛtɦ tɦɛ sɦaʍaռ աɦօ's ɮʊʀɨɛɖ ɨռ ɦɨs tօʍɮ,
Pʟaʏɨռɢ ɦɨs ʄʟʊtɛ aʟօʄt ɦɛaʋɛռʟʏ ċɛɨʟɨռɢ's.
As tɨs tɦɛ aʄtɛʀ-ɛʄʄɛċts ċaռst ɮɛɛռ sɛɛռ ʄʀօʍ aʄօʀɛtɨʍɛs,
Tɦɛ աatɛʀ's ʏɛʟʟօա, ɮʀɛatɦɨռɢ ɨs sɦaʟʟօա, ʄɨʀɛs aʀt ɮʊʀռɨռɢ tɦɛ ʍօʊռtaɨռ's aռɖ Mɛaɖօաs, ʄʀօʍ tɦօsɛ ʀɨċɦ ʍɛռ աɨtɦ tɨռ-ʍɛtaʟ ɦat's; as tɨs tɦɛʏ sօʊɢɦt a ռɛա օʀɖɛʀ, as tɦɛ ʍɛɖɨċɨռɛ ʍɛռ ʄօʀɛsaա tɦɛsɛ atʀօċɨtɨɛs aռɖ sʟaʊɢɦtɛʀ's. Tɦɛ sɦaʍaռ քʀօքɦɛsɨɛɖ օʄ tɦɛ ʍʊʀɖɛʀ օʄ tɦɛɨʀ աaʀʀɨօʀ's aռɖ ɖaʊɢɦtɛʀ's, as tɦɛʏ saաɛst a ռɛա աօʀʟɖ օʀɖɛʀ , ċօʍɨռɢ ɛʋɛռ at tɦat tɨʍɛ.
©Brandon Nagley
@Lonesome poets poetry
©Prophetic poetry
Hɨɖɖɛռ ɮɛtաɨxt tɦɛ tɦɨċҡɛt;
Eʏɛ's քɨɛʀċɨռɢ ʟɨҡɛ ʍɨɖռɨɢɦt քaռtɦɛʀ's
Tɦɛɨʀ ʄɛatɦɛʀ's, ċօʟօʀʄʊʟ, ʀɨɢɨɖ.
Tɦɛʏ sɛɛɨtɦ tɦɛ ɨռʋaɖɛʀ's
Cօʍɨռɢ ʊքօռ tɦɛɨʀ sɦօʀɛ's,
Tɦɛɨʀ ʄʀɨɢɦtɛռɛɖ օʄ tɦɛ ʍɛtaʟ
Aռɖ ɦɛʟʍɛt's օʄ ɦɛʟʟ's stօʀʍ.
Tɦɛ ɖʀʊʍ ċɨʀċʟɛ stօք's
Tɦɛ ʍɛռ aռɖ աօʍɛռ stօք ɖaռċɨռɢ,
Tɦɛ ʄɨʀɛ ɮʊʀռɛtɦ ʟօա,
As tɨs ռօռɛ tɨʍɛ ʄօʀ ʀօʍaռċɨռɢ.
Tɦɛ Eʊʀօքɛaռ ɖɛatɦ ɮʀɨռɢɛʀ's
Tʀaʍքʟɛ saċʀɛɖ ɢʀօʊռɖ,
Tɦɛ ɢɦօsts օʄ օʟɖ
Iռɖɨaռ sօʊʟ's, ʍaʀċɦ աɨtɦ tɦɛ ʟɨʋɨռɢ tʀɨɮɛsʍɛռ
Tօ sɦaʍaռ sօʊռɖ's.
Dɛsɛċʀatɨօռ ɦatɦ ɮɛɢʊռ
Tɦɛ ɮʟօօɖ ɦatɦ ɮɛɛռ sքɨʟt.
Iռռօċɛռt ռatɨʋɛs, օʄ tɦɛɨʀ օառ ɦօʍɛʟaռɖ,
Raքɛɖ, քʟʊռɖɛʀɛɖ ɨռ ʄɨʟtɦ.
Tɦօʊ ċaռst stɨʟʟ ɦɛaʀɛtɦ tɦɛ Cʀʏ's օʄ tɦɛ ɮaɮɨɛs aռɖ աօʍɛռ,
As I ċaռst ɦɛaʀɛtɦ tɦɛ sɦaʍaռ աɦօ's ɮʊʀɨɛɖ ɨռ ɦɨs tօʍɮ,
Pʟaʏɨռɢ ɦɨs ʄʟʊtɛ aʟօʄt ɦɛaʋɛռʟʏ ċɛɨʟɨռɢ's.
As tɨs tɦɛ aʄtɛʀ-ɛʄʄɛċts ċaռst ɮɛɛռ sɛɛռ ʄʀօʍ aʄօʀɛtɨʍɛs,
Tɦɛ աatɛʀ's ʏɛʟʟօա, ɮʀɛatɦɨռɢ ɨs sɦaʟʟօա, ʄɨʀɛs aʀt ɮʊʀռɨռɢ tɦɛ ʍօʊռtaɨռ's aռɖ Mɛaɖօաs, ʄʀօʍ tɦօsɛ ʀɨċɦ ʍɛռ աɨtɦ tɨռ-ʍɛtaʟ ɦat's; as tɨs tɦɛʏ sօʊɢɦt a ռɛա օʀɖɛʀ, as tɦɛ ʍɛɖɨċɨռɛ ʍɛռ ʄօʀɛsaա tɦɛsɛ atʀօċɨtɨɛs aռɖ sʟaʊɢɦtɛʀ's. Tɦɛ sɦaʍaռ քʀօքɦɛsɨɛɖ օʄ tɦɛ ʍʊʀɖɛʀ օʄ tɦɛɨʀ աaʀʀɨօʀ's aռɖ ɖaʊɢɦtɛʀ's, as tɦɛʏ saաɛst a ռɛա աօʀʟɖ օʀɖɛʀ , ċօʍɨռɢ ɛʋɛռ at tɦat tɨʍɛ.
©Brandon Nagley
@Lonesome poets poetry
©Prophetic poetry
Poem goes as such if you can't read fancy words loll...
Title is -hidden betwixt the thicket, lies the eye's of the tribesmen.
Bygone tribesmen
Hidden betwixt the thicket;
Eye's piercing like midnight panther's
Their feathers, colorful, rigid.
They seeith the invader's
Coming upon their shore's,
Their frightened of the metal
And helmet's of hell's storm.
The drum circle stop's
The men and women stop dancing,
The fire burneth low,
As tis none time for romancing.
The European death bringer's
Trample sacred ground,
The ghosts of old
Indian souls, march with the living tribesmen
To shaman sound's.
Desecration hath begun
The blood hath been spilt.
Innocent natives, of their own homeland,
*****, plundered in filth.
Thou canst still heareth the Cry's of the babies and women,
As I canst heareth the shaman who's buried in his tomb,
Playing his flute aloft heavenly ceilings.
As tis the after-effects canst be seen from aforetimes,
The waters yellow, breathing is shallow, fires art burning the mountain's and Meadows, from those rich men with tin-metal hat's; as tis they sought a new order, as the shaman prophesied of the ****** of their warrior's and daughter's, as they sawest a new world order, coming even at that time.
Title is -hidden betwixt the thicket, lies the eye's of the tribesmen.
Bygone tribesmen
Hidden betwixt the thicket;
Eye's piercing like midnight panther's
Their feathers, colorful, rigid.
They seeith the invader's
Coming upon their shore's,
Their frightened of the metal
And helmet's of hell's storm.
The drum circle stop's
The men and women stop dancing,
The fire burneth low,
As tis none time for romancing.
The European death bringer's
Trample sacred ground,
The ghosts of old
Indian souls, march with the living tribesmen
To shaman sound's.
Desecration hath begun
The blood hath been spilt.
Innocent natives, of their own homeland,
*****, plundered in filth.
Thou canst still heareth the Cry's of the babies and women,
As I canst heareth the shaman who's buried in his tomb,
Playing his flute aloft heavenly ceilings.
As tis the after-effects canst be seen from aforetimes,
The waters yellow, breathing is shallow, fires art burning the mountain's and Meadows, from those rich men with tin-metal hat's; as tis they sought a new order, as the shaman prophesied of the ****** of their warrior's and daughter's, as they sawest a new world order, coming even at that time.
