As she breaks and burns,
Through this narrowing night,
Her ointment of prowess,
Takes over the duty,
A fraction of lumens,
Yet just as bright,
To those glaring eyes.

As she howls over this hill,
She echoes through trees,
Snapping twigs as she goes,
Turning us to stone,
As we stare,
At medusa of the night.

A poem about the moon!

Flying, walking, swimming, gliding, transport everywhere
Mythological, stunning, dangerous, deadly, cunning, amazing creatures
Chinese, Indian, Philippine, Korean, Vietnamese, European, too many to count
Wings, snakes, claws, talons, tails, teeth, features some have but others don’t
Blue, red, gold, black, white, green, many colors they have
Mysteries, stories, legends, myths, poems, riddles, the places you can find them
Fire, ice, water, poison, deadliest weapons of the cunning beasts
Caves, marshes, villages, farms, caverns, valleys, places they decide to live
Terrorizing, hiding, living, thriving, surviving, doing what they must
Knights, warriors, armies, peasants, humans all trying to kill them
Alas, they fail, the dragons seem to always prevail
Gold, silver, diamonds, riches, dragons are portrayed to have
Yet not all of them do, and the foolish humans get nothing but death
The dangerous dragons want revenge, but revenge is a sad tale indeed
Kind ones never experienced pain from them and are weak against them
Dangerous are killed for their ways, kind for their fortune
The twisted way of them, the life that is destroyed
Forever told, never seen, forever kept that way

Ason 7d

I was not born of god and muse.
Pictures of virtuosic health  
captured in epic poetry
that I don’t want to write.

The music I make charms my world.
Trees and rocks
obey not the wind and current,
but the meter of my songs.

You too fell for tricks of snake,
though my tune called your name
long before they evaded my coil.

Forgive me, I won’t question your sleep below.
For even the rules of your warden dictate
you can’t look forward
while you’re looking back.

I could be your Orpheus.
Which is to say that even after death
you won’t get rid of me.

I could be your Orpheus,
but with the way his story goes
wouldn’t you say I’m probably
more like his lyre.

Ormond May 3

.
I tried to capture you
In the forests of Donegal,
Your bark of hair, red, so dark,
Was smear, camouflage, and window
Into a lost Fae world made as I was sinking
Without ever knowing, falling, without fear
Years later, you have long left and I still
Breathe in a wooden box of dream.

In Celtic folklore, the Irish: leannán sí (shee) "Barrow-Lover" (Scottish Gaelic: leannan sìth; Manx: lhiannan shee; is a beautiful woman of the Aos Sí (people of the barrow or the fairy folk) who takes a human lover. Lovers of the leannán sídhe are said to live brief, though highly inspired, lives. The name comes from the Gaelic words for a sweetheart, lover, or concubine and the term for a barrow or fairy-mound.

The leanan sídhe is generally depicted as a beautiful muse, who offers inspiration to an artist in exchange for their love and devotion; however, this frequently results in madness for the artist, as well as premature death.

I name him Alchionidas
But his soul is more like Midas
For everyone he touches turns to gold
He has the hands of a healer
Speaks in waves, a strong demeanour
And his honour was a legend to uphold.

But legend turned to myth just as anger leads to hate and I suffer more than Diabolos does in hell.

He's a man that you may meet
And for me, spit at his feet
For I know more than I do care to tell.

Θα σ'αγαπώ για πάντα.
Vexren4000 May 1

Children, youth,
Raised on fables,
Of heroes and treasure,
Pirates sailing high and wide seas,
Finding beast of land,
Islands lost to the sea,
Of mythic beasts,
Cyclops and Dragons.
Mayhaps the child,
raised on myth and stories of magic,
Should be given,
Time to dream,
Before his spirit,
Is broken.

Late, late one night, I heard a faint scream it woke me from a horrible dream.
I raised my head from my soft pillow I hear a faint sobbing across the meadow.
I went to the window to see what was wrong when I spied something lumbering along.
I thought to myself, poor woman is stuck in those toothy like Jaws.
  As I heard that desperate faint scream as they entered the woods on the way down to the stream.
As I put on my boots and ran out the door, I grabbed my shotgun, it was against my door.
I heard a scream within the woods so distant and faint it was frightening to know that it was so bold to run in full force into that unknown.
As I reached the woods, I stopped to think, what shall I do when I meet up with the thing?
No thoughts came to mind so I ran in time to see a woman screaming through the pines.
Help, help me please the woman did scream.
So, I followed that ant to its mound just a little away from the town.
It climbed to the top and without a second thought it slid right down into that deep drop.
So, I climbed that steep anthill just to the top and I peeked without a thought.
I could hear her screams within that deep dark hole being ripped apart from her head to her toes. The screams were so loud that they echoed right out of the hole.
So, I picked up my gun, and I ran down the mound straight back to my lovely little old town.

Michael Robert Triska 2017
The saviors of bakewell was my inspiration
Oskar Erikson Apr 27

mingle our ashes
let us not part in death
let the memory
(itwillnever-wilt-nor-blossom-both)
be all that is left.

Patroclus: You live on.
Lilly Apr 26

Dance; bathe your heart in sweat:
Make the hurricane jealous of your fervour;
Sing; summon gods with your breath:
Make the stars beg for your favour.

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