#terrypratchett
A dance, my dance, between realities
My dance of seasons and of life
A dance I often danced before
Until I felt that mind
That mind, her mind, so joyful
Her mind, so strange, so kind
A mind I never sensed before
Until I saw that face
This face, her face, so beautiful
Her face, her eyes so bright
A face, I never watched before
Until I touched that life
This life, this girl, I danced with
I saw her blazing eyes,
This life, I never knew before
I want to call it mine
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 9:49 AM UTC
This is, where the dragons went
Not waiting, not dead
This is, where the dragons went
Dormant they lay instead
Packed tight in a place
With scaling filled space
And nevermore
They have been seen
This is, where the dragons rest
Not reality, not dream
This is, where the dragons rest
In occult shimmer gleam
As magic did fade
They left nothing but sage
And by degrees
They were forget
This is, where the dragons wake
Not brutal, not calm
This is, where the dragons wake
Summoned to our realm
Recalled to a spot
They slowly forgot
And conquering
They wander back
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 5:09 PM UTC
The Discworld Death
The Discworld Death and Binky the horse, are here to stay.
The knight and his steed.
The darkest light even on the sunniest of days.
He is here now and he has always been here.
He will be here at the end;
The time you reach the end of your allotted years.
The Death of Rats fears no cat,
For he is already immortal; he always appears in black.
Even if a rat has been killed by a cat
And the cat can see The Death of Rats,
He still walks in his cowl and carries his scythe,
Because no matter how much the cat would like to attack,
It cannot **** the Death of Rats, as it is no longer alive.
You cannot **** Death, nor can you **** the Death of Rats.
You cannot escape the end,
And you cannot escape the cat,
If you are a rat;
On that you can depend.
Susan is Death’s Grand Daughter, with her hair black and white.
Albert is Death’s helper; the foolish type.
Death stands alone in the night and at his side there flies a crow.
With electric blue eyes, Death stares deep into your soul.
He can reach inside you and take your life,
Or he can let you go.
But when your time is up,
From Death there is no escaping.
He is your undertaker, have no fear of the Reaper;
He cannot tell you where you are going.
Death is an anthropomorphic personification.
Discworld is my favourite form of fiction.
It would be my preferred place,
To take a lifelong vacation.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
I.
So well, honest people make poor poets,
since they want dockyard receipts from Sparta
for how many ships Helen’s face launched there.
II.
Honest details make the best poetry.
Poets plant made-up gardens with real toads,
where clothing and china patterns are art.
III.
Poets write because they have things to say.
They write because they have things they can’t say,
and so, start with the sobs they can’t swallow.
IV.
Poetry is like life, being one big question
that you live until the answers arrive,
And emotion finds thought and thought find words.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC