Onward we trudge to Miserthorpe.
On blood soaked dreams to lend support.
Knock-kneed, railing, gasping for breath
We march through the marsh toward our death,
But death will not out soul's escort.
The hordes of the undying court
Will shortly rend our lives cut short.
There is no hope; never the less...
Onward we trudge
Oh, if the past I could abort
I would have strived to build rapport
With that young lass from Watercrest.
My dreams of glory reassessed.
Yet time moves on without distort.
Onward we trudge
This is going to be a part of a collection of poems I call The ****** Journal.
You see my friends and I play a lot of D&D, and we ran a campaign in my friends world where there's this area called the deadlands, and I wanted to tell the story of an unnamed solder having to fight against the evil there. Feel free to drop a critique, as I haven't done too much poetry where I am not the speaker. So this will be kindof new to me.
