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Zeyu Feb 2019
Air soaked with yellow heat.
leaves shaking the dark-green dread,
Silence on the narrow street,
Where our fathers lost the battle,
There! The firing squad is loud
They cried to history and fear
They cried to death and uncertainty
Zeyu Dec 2019
I.
Her blade was quenched in limestone brine
Its sable haft laced with golden thread.
Atop the palace walls, she treads lightly
In her robe woven thin as cicada's wing

II.
When I saw his children past the silken screen
again-- from atop the cedar crossbeam--perhaps
I should lightly retreat but I lingered still:
until he saw silver ribbons that tied my hair
He (I had thought) unlike those lives I severed  
can live to tomorrow (but our gaze had locked!)

III.
A swing, a flash, an unfelt wound-- she moves
with Gansui's fury, and Chunjun's spirit
And softly these shattered visages laid to
a dreamless rest upon her gracious touch.
This poem is largely inspired by the story of a female assassin, Nie Yinniang, in the Tang Dynasty short story collection Chuanqi (The Legends); Her independence and desire for freedom are unparalleled in the story. Yinniang was a truly amazing character in the fiction at the time.

Gansui and Chunjun are two legendary swords said to be owned by the King of Yue, who reigned around the late 5th century B.C.E.
Andrew Vitans Dec 2019
Fear's unknown to him
All wish their courage was like his

Loyal soul an' loyal heart
Being a warrior seems such an art

He yearns the glory feeling
Gettin' honor feels as good as lusting

But all he sees are ****** fields
Hearin' pain an' swords against shields

He's not scared of death
Pagan, in divine judgement, he's no faith

Crested helmet, drawn sword
"For the motherland", not another word

At the signal he'll unleash hell
After slaughterin' hostiles, he'll feel well

No one will be spared, he's merciless
But primarily, he's a fearless
This poem is about the perfect ideal of a fearless soldier.
The soldier is pagan, not christian so it's refered to the classical roman or greek warrior.
Enjoy!
Undead Nomad Nov 2019
mine arm grows weak
from carrying this sword
now broken and lame
I've taken stead of confusion
losing my vision, seeing only within
but there's much a contradiction
it spreads through my head
in torrents of attrition

leaving eroded landscapes
of what was once rife with colors
of life observed
only felt now
remnants of what once had sight
it's all bad design
provoking lines of thought
about reasons for naught
becoming empty space
erased, void of purpose
and somewhat displaced

and yet, somewhere thereout
way beyond what could be scoped
lies the answer to the riddle
that occupies my conscious abode
so I look on with perplexed face
maybe--

maybe my curiosity baits the beast
a living resolution and key to inner peace
it seems logical
somehow
to stare into the paradox
that is and always has been
the solution within...
Chris Nov 2019
I saw it all in slow-motion,
the sword pierced your heart.
You fell down, but I caught you,
my heart was tearing apart.

I killed your attacker,
showed no mercy to him.
I sank down to my knees,
unable to accept you were gone.

I held you close to my chest,
my tears staining your clothes,
I sat there ‘til nightfall,
when your soul had long left.
Anthony Pierre Nov 2019
Every knight swords
A razor sharpened tip
To pare into the souls
Of their many subjects

Sir Very Special Naipaul
An august knight was he.
His felt-tipped glaive
Donned in ink stained valour

It cuts, this sword, above all
Deep into the mind
Bending, shaping its stream
Of understanding

Every knight who swords
A razor sharpened end
Must pen into our hearts
The most noble trend
A Free State is where I belong.
Maya Duran Sep 2019
ii.
You are in the living room at dusk
Haphazard towers of moving boxes rise around you
The furniture has been dismantled and
You divert your gaze to the underwhelming formation
Of cardboard and tape
As your mother screams and throws the cat across the room

In retrospect, it reminds you of an album cover
For some emo basement band
A collage of childhood in hues of brown
Or a glimpse of red flannel
Cardboard castles, a little boy
Holding a paper sword
Taken on a disposable camera in 2004
And reappropriated for it’s nostalgia in 2014

The boy you caught is not amongst your rescue party
You veil your disappointment poorly as you climb into the passenger seat
And it filters through the holes in the cloth like grey light
You blame the fatigue on your mother alone
Though it isn’t entirely her own
"Cavetown wrote a song about your ex and we played it all summer long" pt 2. I remember wet grass and pavement, chainlink fence and the high school running track that was a few blocks down, but I cannot for the life of me remember what the the front yard of that house looked like. All I can picture is a curb and the street I grew up on in the deeper East side.
Devin Ortiz Aug 2019
The Clock strikes three days until Madness.
An itch of a Tick and every Toc.

The Question of old simmers in the Mind.
A Deviant is only half the Answer.

The Cursed Weapon is drawn at the Ready.
Words offer no Reason or Resolve.

The Golden Feather succumbs to the Crimson.
Yielding all Truth to die as Fiction.
fm Jul 2019
“i am a god!”
he yelled
with shaking fists
and a beat-red face.
his knees scabbed
and his blood flowing freely
onto the cemented ground.

she stared down at him,
eyebrow quirked
and a hint of a smile.
sword pointed
and ready for battle.
“you may be a god,
but i am hades.
and i bow to no one.”
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