The night silence screams in my ears after I startle awake.
The crying whistle of iron, wood and fletching echoes in the night
Memories of a dead mother sinking in a sea of vibrant autumn leaves
dead eyes commanding me to run
but I don't run
The girl needs me.
Tanya, child of chains, of blood, of regret, of sin, of... hope.
She taught regret like its something I lost
Like it wasn't torn from my chest and replaced with hammers
and blades and chains and blood dripping in silence
I see in her eyes a seed, something that grows in a land that hasn't seen green in a century
And footsteps in the night herald our death, heed my words, a life of such misery and cruelty brings only misery and cruelty in return.
We tear our skin on greedy grasping and groping thorns
fleeing the howls another night again
Black hair like the stars were plucked from the sky just to give something to liken it to
Brown eyes that sound like chains rattling on stone, so I don't forget my promises.
She speaks of hope, as if it's something tangible and abundant, enough for everyone.
But like a stubborn candlelight in the winter night, fighting the wind for survival, it does warmy my heart.
Perhaps the road does not have to end.
Perhaps we have bled and fought and wept enough, and we have finally paid our dues.
Perhaps we can find it in ourselves to find forgiveness for the wicked things we have done, and if not, at least we have found forgiveness in each other.
Perhaps life without pain is possible.
The night no longer screams silently, but speaks the hidden language of footsteps, of drawn daggers and ill intent.
Years turned a child into the promise of a young woman.
The promise of a life lived in peace.
But as I know, the enemy of peace is the cutting midnight whistle of an arrow, and the earth itself opening up to swallow anything I hold dear.
She sinks into a sea of dead leaves and tides of blood.
It was not a ******. It was a theft.
A theft of the last good thing in the world.
The last star in the sky, snuffed out, to leave all in darkness.
A theft of a promise, made to a naive child in early summer.
Where once a promise stood, now a blade named Vengance.
A theft of lives, not one.
But regret was not something I lost. It was torn from me. The ones who gave me my hammers and blades are the ones who took my child.
And now, I go to return my hammers and my blade.
And to take back my regret.
A poem about a couple of characters I've written. The main character was as a child taken by a ruthless gang of outlaws. They killed his mother in front of him as they attempted to flee.
The gang took the boy in and trained him to be one of their own, making him their de-facto torturer, his prefered tool being hammers, hence the title.
During a raid, the main character finds a young girl hiding in a house, and he takes pity on her and takes her as his own, and by doing so incurred the wrath of the outlaws. The main character and the girl fled into the woods and lived many years as quietly as they could, the girl teaching him to be good and kind, and to seek redemption for the people he had hurt.
Eventually, the outlaws find them and as a petty act of revenge they attack them both, killing the girl. The main character takes up his sword again after many years and heads to **** the outlaws.
(For anyone curios, it wasn't mentioned in the poem; but after the main character wreaks havoc on the outlaws, he lives a life of kindness, redemption, and peace.)