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c Apr 2018
blood rushing into my head
painless, but yet burning; white
perhaps now i have died a saintly death
i will be remembered as a hero
not a coward;
perhaps now i have died a saintly death
i will be worthwhile to remember
not worthless
perhaps now i have died a saintly death
i will be known for my kindness
which never existed
to cover up what really happened
perhaps now i have died a saintly death
somebody will cry that they love me
instead of me being hated
perhaps now i have died a saintly death
everything will be better
at least death has its own dwellings
This is the first poem I have ever published, hope you enjoy it.
I just thought somebody would like to see something from a different perspective.
K Balachandran Oct 2015
An army of ants, black, brown, red and white, in disciplined columns,
each one no less than any other,armed to the teeth, ready to ****
on their marauding march,find this giant, not a day too long ago was
too fierce as a man,  whose reign of  terror was most feared, lying still,
as if all those deeds were  incidental,and he in no way is to be blamed.

They are equanimous, the ants, next wave, this is no more than just debris,  this relic from the past, for them, something to be dealt with,
the army of disciplined ants, as per their manual, meticulously inspect,
whether the body has some strength  left somewhere in the system,
to pull together rise, overcome the fatigue of a life full of misdeeds
not nice to remember,  counted all the same as glory by sycophants.

They want to finish the work fast, fearing the return of the nightmare,
busily they went on doing what they are good at,they had their brief,
from the command center ,to clear up the debris from the battle front,

The last of the ants leaving  the gnawed white bones,  under moonlight,
writes the epitaph on sand,with it's spindly legs,thus:"This fort too fell"
All flesh is grass
sheri Aug 2015
mischief and such wit
  moony, wormtail, padfoot, prongs
  they're the marauders
and when the job's done
  wave your wand and just say this
  'mischief managed!' done
cleverness present
  but wasted on breaking rules
  yet used for the fun
'Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs
Are proud to present to you
The Marauder's Map.'
KD Miller Dec 2014
12/18/2014

Subartic winds howling down tunnel wind slleys
sounding a lot, you know, like us.
Smoke plums would climn up past our
cupid's bows reaching fo the reaches of dark matter
"oh don't worry about me"'s
under the sweet toffee light of the cannery
black haired boys would smile and we'd
spit back more crass
the light shining down on our columellas
and the trefoils of menthol ****** history now-
a boy would take out his lighter
and somewhere behind us in the back of town
we'd hear the ghost of a christmas Mel Torme song
on the terrace of a good cafe.
part of the Marauders of Ivy Ln series

princeton nj

— The End —