"cutlass" poems
Its a scam, its a scam, see the Crimson Gang deftly scamming them
They by sleight have befuddled gullible masses Moral Compass
Made them see wrong as right twisting their brains from the stem
With deceitful guile they shepherded them all to the fools' campus
Slander and fake News galore fed to vacant hungry masses scrum
Knowledge is power the reprobates declares, do not let it pass
We're the majority the bullies screams, knowing they're just scums
Worthless charlatans who rob successes and **** without cutlass
They take a foregone conclusion and coat it with fool's gold crumb
A victim with no intention of going after an uninterested lass
Dumb masses fed fake news fooled into harassing actions dumb
A non-event becomes a show of the controlling might of our class
Crimson gangs interpret a non-events from his deluded sad drum
Creates a warped sick drama round a hapless victim for laughs
Gives street theater actions to masses, these will oppose and numb
Whilst poor victim subjected to 'voiding' madness wonders past
The Crimson leaders laugh so much like pirates drinking ***
Look how we manipulate the masses, they are so simple and crass
With our devious twisting propaganda they eat out of our ***
We simply use them to nail and crucify our victim to the cross
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
Feared on both land and high seas
Many a tale can be told
Of the pillaging of neighborhoods
Daily setting sail these pirates bold
Days spent digging for buried treasure
Leaving no stones unturned
The pirates ***** was out there somewhere
Blackbeard's gold is what they both yearned
After a day of living reckless
The warm waters would call their name
Where they would do battle in their sailing ships
Perfecting this pirate game
Both of them young brothers
Buccaneers through and through
Wise enough to listen to their mother
When she said get in the tub you two
Yes their high seas are warm bath waters
And their cutlass a mighty scrub brush
As legend would have it in their short years
They are pirates of the tub
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:57 AM UTC
seductive effective cutlass sadistic
serendipity and la la la
licorice liquor lick her and plastic
roses rise relentless resentment
time mime rhyme desire
sentiment sincerely aspire admire
anonymous synonymous simultaneous symmetry
molasses disastrous syntactic mirrorly
Samir sincere severe severe
la la la love na na na never
samirly this way
suicide sinister cynical silence
stop and stare
care and share
love with or without violence
sloppy seconds menace a menace
minus a life structure dependence
relevance relevance irrelevance
sense tense and meaninglessness
sincerely samirly
synthetic systemic sense
cents cents
sense sense
cents
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 12:23 AM UTC
Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.
Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week! , which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.
Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.
Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.
But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.
The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.
Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.
But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,
I'd been twice as brave if I hadn't been flustered.
And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,
We'd have been three times as brave, we think,
And Custard said, I quite agree
That everybody is braver than me.
Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
Oh, I should like to ride the seas,
A roaring buccaneer;
A cutlass banging at my knees,
A dirk behind my ear.
And when my captives' chains would clank
I'd howl with glee and drink,
And then fling out the quivering plank
And watch the beggars sink.
I'd like to straddle gory decks,
And dig in laden sands,
And know the feel of throbbing necks
Between my knotted hands.
Oh, I should like to strut and curse
Among my blackguard crew...
But I am writing little verse,
As little ladies do.
Oh, I should like to dance and laugh
And pose and preen and sway,
And rip the hearts of men in half,
And toss the bits away.
I'd like to view the reeling years
Through unastonished eyes,
And dip my finger-tips in tears,
And give my smiles for sighs.
I'd stroll beyond the ancient bounds,
And tap at fastened gates,
And hear the prettiest of sound-
The clink of shattered fates.
My slaves I'd like to bind with thongs
That cut and burn and chill...
But I am writing little songs,
As little ladies will.
2.9k
A 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera
A mixtape
Valentines Day
A tuxedo
A seafoam green dress
Prom night
A starlit road
A taste of your lips
Spring
A weeping embrace
A slamming door
Summer
An empty bedroom
A bottle of gin
Autumn
A silent girl
A disturbed boy
Winter
"I don't love you like I did yesterday"
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC
its tha return of tha gangsta thanks to ya
too many blacks out here livin' they life in fear
families seeing tears problems tier
blurry visions make it hard to see clear my dear
cant get through the atmosphere
feel me it's the return of the gangsta I'd like to thank ya
Malcolm for giving me the principles and reaching a few people's
opening minds to grinds and you'll find
me chilling on the corner puffing marijuana yep I'm a gonna
in society outlaw outcast put my thoughts on blast
techs is humming cuz I smell war coming armies drumming
po folks crying innocent victims dying
for no apparent reasons caught in daily treasons which gives me a reasons to put an end to Americas sin but too many folks stuck in
a fantAsy called reality in actuality
they plotting our burials G
troops overseas findings empty caves so the government can make saves war profiteers racketeering gangsters hustlers
exposing lies don't be a busta like a Douglass no diamonds in my cutlass couldn't move so I had cut less people out of my circle I'm nerdy as urkel yea my intellect carefully selects
what's real from reality I envision myself as well as my enemies in a fatality so battling me I was made for war built off the backs of my ancestors sore yea white house was built by the slaves for white supremacy kind of irony they sayin' my folks was lazy?
worked up from Sun up to Sun down
I can't believe my folks walking with they heads towards the grounds
how bout we get mad and let off gun sounds pound for pound
you know they can't hang with us
that's why they had to make laws against us
scared of rise and corruptions ain't a surprise through the eyes
of real people who realize pain ain't a substitution for happiness bliss
I guess I was sunkissed
by wisdom mouth open hail Mary entered me and told me
we all family eyes lit no **** no fit nothing
but a glowing brain exemption of fame down goes my name
in the book of life made wisdom my wife
she took my arm she's my charm
as I glance at the souls gunned down on plantations farms gangsta....
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
Like a ghost on the wind
She comes from the sea
And trembles the foe
So wild and free
With swashbuckling swagger
And a Jolly Roger laugh
She flies the black flag
On a whalebone staff
She has terrifying eyes
And a ring in her ear
And on her sun tanned face
A flippant leer
With a bone-cold glare
And a sneer on her lip
She has coins in hand
And a cutlass on hip
With a thunderous blast
From her cannons' might
She plants fear in the strong
And steals the fight
She takes all that's lost
And turns it to gold
For she's crafty and devious
And frightningly bold
She is dashing and daring,
A fierce buccaneer
Faces of many
Pale when she's near
From ocean to ocean
Her tales are spun
About the queen of the pirates
For in the end she won
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
Life molds you into a shapeshifting mess.
One stumbles through different tribulations, and the soul diversifies as the years pass.
You turn into different versions of yourself.
It’s like treading through hell, but you taste heaven at the same time.
It’s not a choice, it’s a requirement.
Its like drinking liquid gold. The concept is luxurious, but it kills you so deliberately.
A beautiful solemnity?
Emotions so immense.
It hurts so much to breathe, to exist, yet you need to stay, you stay because of love. We suffer to exert empathy. Love is the cutlass that impales deeply.
It cuts far, it makes you bleed profusely, but it feels so good.
It just feels so good.
Is there a point to it all in the very end?
Happiness seems temporary. Chasing it is like the drop you feel when the veil is pulled from under your foundation; long, scary.
Happiness is the rarest paragon.
The heart, heavy and the mind, full.
Wondering day after day.
Who will understand me, touch me, sense me.
Wonder, keep wondering.
Wonder possesses you.
Wonder keeps watching you.
Wonder doesn’t let go, it comes to watch you die.
That’s the why, that’s the death.
Life will never give you an answer.
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 1:54 PM UTC
Yo ** ** and a bottle of wine;
Your heart will be mine.
You will make me walk the plank;
Because on your love I can bank.
Me heartie, I be coming for you.
Brave a cutlass battle, through and through.
Secret isles we will go a-sailing.
Give me another kiss, never failing.
Land ahoy, here I am looking for your treasure.
A map of your heart is my only pleasure.
I will find ye, that will be my lot;
Because X marks the spot.
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 5:48 AM UTC
There are voices I hear
that are unusually clear, it's quite an awful racket
What do you mean? I hear nothing
You don't? I hear something
Me? I can hear only quacking
They argue and bicker
I swear I get sicker each and every day
I think you're crazy, my son
He's fine, Obi Wan
Guys? These ducks are coming our way
The least I can say
is that on rather slow days, I listen to combat the dullness
At least someone's not bored
I'm a Sith Lord!
Oh crap! one those ducks has a cutlass!!
It could be worse I suppose
but they always impose on the moments of silence I cherish
Man, he wasn't joking!
Those ducks are force choking!
If we don't leave, we're all going to perish!
One day I know
They'll finally go, and my sanity I will gain back
Quack quack quack quack
Quack quack quack quack quack
Quack quack quack quack quack quack quack!
sigh
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
Two-tongued and long,
Slander and smooth,
Naked and wicked.
Moves hissing,
Delivers kisses of death,
With tongue flicking.
A revered reptile.
Lives in dead piles of woods
In trees, and deserts,
The cold earth's hugger
Crawls like nature's gymnast.
Never has he ever laughed
Never made any friends
Never trusted by anybody.
Sadly he has a king,
Black like me
But has no soul
he lives in Africa
And in parts of Asia
He bites and hisses
But I don't bite
only on my food
He doesn't chew.
I do, and I swallow.
Him, his preys whole
I despise him.
I have many reasons
He social-engineered his ways
Around Adam"s woman
One day, he ****** eve up
With smooth lies
What this even implies,
Empirically, logically,
I really don't know,
All I know, I was told!
Hold on, I know not
From whence it came,
Maybe from the good book,
That's a Long and twisted story.
It says he used his tongue
Not on her as a woman,
But to break her home.
Adam was a **** fool,
To leave that girl home alone.
Unannounced, he came in kool
Using his double tongues.
Was she kinda blind?
He isn't even cute.
This story I can't refute
Yet millions have concurred
I'm not a friend.
Not of the story.
Of him, the notorious,
The venomous
The infamous heel biter
Once again, I hate him
Never was a friend
Never will be,
Because of that poor woman.
He's the First home breaker,
Frickin' liar
Cursed by God
His head to be severed
Using a sword,
A stone or stick,
Day or night,
Right or wrong,
Because of poor little eve
Adam's kids will strike
At his tiny little head.
Death to the serpent!
Eternal condemnation
Even if he repents,
Strike his elongated body
With a double-edged cutlass.
Don't you ever feel sorry
For this sorry ***
Chinese add him cooked
segments by segments to curry.
He has no class
He Kills at will.
I hate him very much
And I do have my reasons.
He's the infamous snake
The symbol of evil
Father of confusion
With evil intention
Perpetual guide
To eternal hell
From the garden of Eden
Who gave Eve a heartbreak.
He's toxic and venomous.
©IvanBrooksPoetry
29/8/2018
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 3:25 AM UTC
the fast car speeds along the avenue
and she relaxes at the wheel
shell tell you she was born to drive
and with a cigarette grey haze
she leans into the telling
a story of her younger days
a summer back in the world
back in the dust of 1958
when the motorcycles rode on main street
she and her baby sister went to see
and stood back of the five and dime
marvelling at at the wild men
and the chrome machines
thouse were the days when
the future was brighter
and the dream seemed like it could be real
this light comes alive in her eye when she speaks
of thouse days
you can see the years fall away
you can almost taste the malted she drank
and almost see her in her blue dress
there at the five and dime
you can see the light in her eyes
when she is remembering thouse days
the sock hop and the drive thu
she is so much a younger soul than i
filled with all these beautiful memories
and as we drive down the hutchinson river parkway
middle of the night
in the pouring rain
robert gordon on the radio
i think to myself that she's right
she was born to drive
and i was born to be with a girl like her
oldsmobile cutlass 440 was her car
i was her man
.and rockabilly was her music
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 4:28 AM UTC
you're a lethal toxin underneath
pull the cutlass from your sheath
a little death never hurt anyone
place my hands 'round your gun
your kiss is an aimed ****
and yet I want to stand still
waiting for you to pull the trigger
a single look shows your vigor
use your scope in the dark
we both know I'm your mark
aim your sword to my breast
you are here at my behest
around my neck I'll feel your hands
and I will be at your command
I want the death you provide
cut me now, deep inside
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC
#Yes I , Putin de RAAAS fi tru him a de Ras of Rases. Cantrolling all dem eleckshan widout deteckshan, cyan touch Putin. Him a hack Babylonian komputah worse den cutlass hack di bush inna mi yard. Putin so cool, dem cyan even stop him hack Babylon Supah-bowl. Ras Putin secret Rasta, Ras Putin tru servant of JAH Almighty Rastafari. Vladimir a teach Haile Selassie di Solomonic wisdom, an ting weh mi seh...
Selah....
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC
The moon sizzles like an aluminum
cutlass,
playing jazz scales with its
arthritis knuckles.
Finger tip mallets strike
the ebony piano keys
With a lazy,
Chocolate, precision.
Tickles your spine
like sardines
&
cereal.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
Someone left a black leather briefcase
at the bus station sometime earlier this week.
They called in a bomb squad
from over in Springfield
after the thing sat there for hours
emitting an aura of chilled sweat;
it took them just as long to get their
from what I've been hearing.
They blew the thing up.
Right there in the bus station,
they blew that ****** briefcase
to Hell and back after an X-ray
found wires and a circuitry board.
This is not a big city,
it's not a small town either,
but here we have a place
that I arrive at twice daily
getting pseudo-bombed
and I can hardly scrape up
the dollar for bus fare at times.
A warehouse over on Jasper street
caught on fire a few days later;
an inferno in close quarters,
so they knocked the old Bess over
so the flames didn't spread.
There is still a giant pile of rubble
at the site; bricks with masonry companies
imprint on the sides, rusty bars that were either
too heavy, or too stuck for scrapping fiends,
and a hell of a lot of odorous char.
This is a winter of fire in Decatur,
but the bones still chill.
The starter is going out
in the 91' Cutlass
that sits in my driveway
braving the winds.
I can hear that grinding noise;
the expensive one.
The one that says,
"Your savings is low!"
every time you think
you're going to have
a stable ride to work.
The bus is reliable,
the route is what will drive
a sane man off the edge.
You start to get sick
of seeing the same ****** places,
the same ****** turns,
the same ****** bumps, and
the same ****** passengers.
Plus, the radio makes Monday
just a little more tolerable
when you get the option
of stopping for breakfast.
I like that car.
Friday seems like a back brace right now,
and I've had just enough caffeine
to where I don't think I can stand a nap.
I'm just glad to have my shoes off, and
the reassuring calm of an uncashed check.
I'm starving.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
these horns, these horns, they weigh me down
they extend like branches towards the sun
and my head is forced to face the asphalt
while I never get to see the rushing headlights
my shadow is sewn to the soles of my sneakers
feet slowly being molded to cloven hooves
as I tip toe through then new year silverdust snow
to feed my few remaining stray familiars
I still live behind the old car wash
so there isn't going to be an inspirational landscape
only drunken demi-gods, dollars falling on deaf ears,
and a cutlass ciera in need of a catalyic converter
inev idiv iciv
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
The face of the precipice is black with lovers;
The sun above them is a bag of nails; the spring's
First rivers hide among their hair.
Goliath plunges his hand into the poisoned well
And bows his head and feels my feet walk through his brain.
The children chasing butterflies turn around and see him there
With his hand in the well and my body growing from his head,
And are afraid. They drop their nets and walk into the wall like smoke.
The smooth plain with its mirrors listens to the cliff
Like a basilisk eating flowers.
And the children, lost in the shadows of the catacombs,
Call to the mirrors for help:
'Strong-bow of salt, cutlass of memory,
Write on my map the name of every river.'
A flock of banners fight their way through the telescoped forest
And fly away like birds towards the sound of roasting meat.
Sand falls into the boiling rivers through the telescopes' mouths
And forms clear drops of acid with petals of whirling flame.
Heraldic animals wade through the asphyxia of planets,
Butterflies burst from their skins and grow long tongues like plants,
The plants play games with a suit of mail like a cloud.
Mirrors write Goliath's name upon my forehead,
While the children are killed in the smoke of the catacombs
And lovers float down from the cliffs like rain.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 12:34 PM UTC
My capillaries believe that the frost is coming for them
-- my spine aching for the warmth
it has come accustomed to,
rather than the boreal brittleness underneath
that the cutlass attached to my feet
glided around in spheres.
It reminded me of the
moon’s orbit,
the shape of the planets
the ellipses of the galaxies
-- suddenly swirling,
breaking and reforming
the stars within them,
which I then noticed to be
the warmth of your
carpals and metacarpals
between mine,
filling up all the Thenar Space.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
The animal spirit she possesses,
An agile anima stalking a dark spark within,
Looms as predator and protector.
This hunter-rogue guide
Glides through her Soulscape,
Revealed as moon illumined mountain forest,
A place of winter-refracted
Ethereality and lurking danger.
In this dusky, deceptive ambiance,
She has access to a primordial instinct –
Archetypal symbols, ancient signs –
At once savage and wise.
Finding herself in this
Wilderness of vulnerability,
She girds for battle.
Staring squarely into the dark,
Duplicitous and cruel face
Of her adversary, she prepares.
She finds the strength to see
What are lies and
What are the truths --
Both are found there
In that pitched, lacerated visage.
Like all warriors across
Time immemorial,
She embraces her pain,
Exercising control over it.
Absorbing the jagged,
Razor’d contours,
She sees
In its elements
The space where the
“Other” ends
And where she begins;
How she was made
A flint against which
He sharpened his cutlass
And where she
Has made of herself
The door through which he entered.
From this core radiance
Comes a rapier will to survive,
The strength to guard her kin,
The keen intelligence
To unleash her primal howl,
And the blood-fire to rule her demons.
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
Sharpen the knives and load the guns, empty another keg of *** Beat the drums and pull the cannon taught. Trim the sail and hoist the jib. Fly the black flag from the rigging. Turn into the wake, and head for our prize. Laden with gold and pieces of eight. Taste the salt spray we can hardly wait. Laying siege to a treasure ship. Come on now don't let her slip away. Mark your lines and make your aim true. There is still a good deal to do, before we can line our pockets with loot. Swing the wheel hard around, hear the cannon pound on the hull of the unsuspecting ship. Thunder echos across her decks, throw the grappling hooks and what the heck. With a cutlass and pistol I take to the fight, and if my luck is just right, I will have my fill of pirates ***** tonight. Gold doubloons and pieces of eight, my won't the ladies think I am great, when I sack this ship and return from the raging main. So on me hearties and cut them down, Davy Jones watches them going down. Singing the pirates song as we go.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 2:29 AM UTC
he stirred from the waking dream
the only sound was marching feet
the roll of drums keeping the pace
in the cold distance
the sky was cloaked in grey
and the air was thick with smoke and the scents of war
there was a reckless air to his demeanour
there was a dangerous glint to the steel in his eye
as he rode slow up the hard dirt lane
past the old stone wall carved with the names of the fallen
the thousand faces to go with thouse poor names
haunt his soul
the caskets were empty cause not a single man returned
not a single soul but him
so he stalks these hills
the grey wood barren trees
the trail wet from a late rain
his tattered and stained uniform hanging loose
from his gaunt form
his cutlass in its scabbard by his side
he had drawn that sword
all along the trails of the north
all through the desperate years of war
regretting each life he took
now old he eyes reflect only the passing days
he hitches his dead pony to the garden gate
and he will take some rest there
by the sweet roses
they smell like the grand ball that he attended
as a young man with that girl
back when he had promise and a future
back when before he had drawn his sword in battle
when he was just another handsome young man
in his neatly pressed uniform
now he falls to sleep at last to sweet dreams
of her and her gentle hand
time has come for reckoning
the last face he would behold
would be hers
and she was singing softly
as he slipped away
to join his loyal troops once again
for the final march into the kingdom come
and oblivion
his statue now gathers pigeons on the college quad
his face obscured by the shadows of academias desire to analyze
but you can still trace the track of his tears
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
Auburn introversion
Will by its arm hold on
Stationary sanction
A constant fissure line
Coming insurrection
Feathered scavengers intrude
For complete cessation
Between the vein and valve
Cutlass complication
Devised the elements
Defiled justification
Wilt into a hardened blame
Fuller indentation
Wreak an engulfed compliance
Its gestation
A bitter control
Chipping fortification
Nails its own mimic
Boweled duplication
Inflicts compounding mirrors
Slowed decimation
From flesh unwilling
Adorn fancification
A scream its teeth
Separation
Impending with haste
The nullification
By removing all proof
Divination
Demand nothing less
By holy vindication
Come clean and silenced
One simplification
As fall essence from claw
Heavy by degradation
Left behind lessons
A home desperation
Cleansed opened to breathe
Now that implication
Is taken in the wind
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
He held the sword ready, standing very still,
The seconds ticked by.
He charged towards me,
I was taken by surprise,
His sword casually slicing my forearm.
Covered in dirt, I howled in pain
As my weapon fell fo the ground.
I danced back, trying to stem the flow of blood.
He brought his clenched fist down on my shoulder blade,
As I tried to move in for a throw, he shifted his weight slightly, sticking out his foot
As I went tumbling, the smell of venom entered my nostrils.
I coughed and fell back again, struggling to breathe,
Franticly searching for my gas mask, I grab my weapon.
Just as my enemy goes to pick up his cutlass,
Another shoots my right shoulder
Gasping for clean air, I watch
All my comrades explode before my eyes
As I lay slowly, silently, slipped out of consciousness,
I could taste the invisible death upon me,
Choking, panting, wheezing, blind, fear, trembling, cold,
Absolute horror, as death slouches upon me....
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC