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A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.

Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. *****.
Seazy Inkwell Sep 2017
The city spearheads the futures we sincerely sold,
As it pluckers your pennies and your coins of gold.

I felt poor amid the auras of their fearsome metals,
Cowering in the clothes of our daily struggles.

I am destitute enough
To bleach out the interests of my cards,
To shatter your savings for a disabled future,
To rummage the stock markets for apertures.

Yet within you exhales tentacles of the color Yellow.

Yellow as in,
The scattered stars that scorch the injured sky,
The mellowing voices of neon artificial lights,
The apex of fire alight in frostbitten nights,
And the yolk of hope my cheers rely.

So while you chase the sun
with your copper-clad hands,
remember but this:

all that glitters is not gold,
It’s the color Yellow in these eyes I behold.
Palpating the empty cavernous realm of intellect and morality,
I find a restricting noose constructed of the finest strands of insecurity, but it's more proportionally comprised of self-doubt. Each fiber's soaked in a vat of social restraint, the ineffective capability of people to deny injustice. Choosing instead the intoxicating mirage that hereditary lies has handed down throughout the centuries.

Helping the constructors of irrationalism build their platform upon supports of popular opinion.
Equipping it with the ingenious trap door many a potential scholar of entropy and fatalism has fallen through. Snapped necks they suffocate on the breath of pseudo-liberty; as the French have, and Americans still do.

Hands bound behind their backs by indecision, latent anger, the belief in a system far from progressive. Where morals and codes of conduct are tempered, and deliberately shaped into devices of torture sugar coated, and worn pridefully without knowing the restrictions nor the pain, any form of progressive thought is absent. The mass majority select intellectual stagnance over the enlightening evolution of attempting to understand the human condition.

They are not to blame.
For shame and resentment are left for frugal debates over each new candidate, sheered from the same wormwood poisoning the stream of consciousness ****** by a nationalistic fervor full of flavor, no long lasting integrity, only iron clad walls of discretion and misrepresentation.

Traveling great distances, shoulders encumbered with regret, apathy, and triviality; the phantom that is a patriot has left his burden laden tracks for the next poor sap to find his way far from freedom, closer to slavery. The yoke fits loosely but unlike the bumbling oxen his purpose is indiscernable, his capacity to think of a way to escape is neutralized by the bag of oats and blinders he himself accepts; by abhorring what he’ll call disrespect and irreverence toward a slave driving body masked by the right to live fruitfully, albeit sedentary.

The joy of complacency is not holding responsibility, not feeling accountable for any choice where the dangers of rational thinking may awaken the bitter, savage realization that he is merely a by-product, a cog in a larger scheme to keep freedom a longer journey than it is according to the whip holder’s theory. The excruciating knot is pulled tightly together by hunger, so the worker satisfies this hunger with more intricately designed knots. His concentration isn’t in untying it, it’s merely compounding it with greater enigmas he’ll leave for the omniscient to decipher, and untangle.

He’ll wash his hands of the assignment and swallow what he deems nourishment, but the hole is never plugged. The hole grows and the abyss growls, the sounds of thousands of souls in constant traction, but this man of many fantasies can have no distractions. His focus remains selectively aimed upon projects the future will later ruin, yet without foresight the ambition has no name so the cycle remains the same.

His lifeless body now swings to and fro above gallows where the omnipotent applaud the writhing spirit of free will convulsing violently; gyrating while the sedated world of the executed continues being recreated to disguise the sincerest, deepest pain he’ll never know, because knowledge is will and the power struggle is one of isolation and possible destitution. So only when he wakes after his fate has been sealed will free spirit, and free will assault his no longer inebriated body, showing no mercy and reminding him of every time they tried to save him.

He’ll scream in utter agony placing his voiceless soul amongst those bellowing from the abyss he never tried to close. What’s more, choosing to ignore such an enormous expanse of nothing, makes the punishment perfectly sufficient, and succinct with every bit of skepticism he had that such a void of expression, virility, and endless suffering even existed. The twisting twine that holds this wretched, still body of reason securely above the wastelands of awareness makes the most insidious noise. It’s like rubbing famine and pestilent ridden bodies together; the crunching sound of bones absent of mass, riddled with brittle chip marks where the consciously aware soldiers of misfortune have attempted to shape spearheads of vindication, but are then left where they were found because even the potential tools of warfare are less sturdy and strong than the flesh bound mind of sterility from whence they came.

So there is nothing this heap of biological ingenuity and imagination can offer, but to swing in each gusting breeze like a sign posted “No Loitering,” “No Trespassing” would when pushed by the conglomerate gales of assembled hundreds. Ignorance prevails, those who fight are made to accept this evil mantra not out of doubt, but hope that once one awakes before his/her spirit and will has been completely removed, they’ll feel the refreshing irony of those who prayed silently that their army of insolent rewriters of justice has grown by one more.

Still breathing, within a masked struggle fought on separate planes of reality, behind curtains weaved of Kevlar, lead, and iron, many perverts of theory co-opt covertly in absolute anonymity fashioning plans: the plans of liberty, freedom, and prosperity.

They’re his only means of acquittal. Slashing the ropes and allowing those long since dead to die in peace, and those whose breath still has a bit of resistance to fight; the chance to view in full honesty and tragedy the gallows where weary travelers of theory are beaten by conviction and moral restrictions.
Boudicca, long hair tangled and bunched; fiery flame red hair.

Warrior queen of the Iceni, daughter of these isles of tin.

Defender of freedom, leader of men, slayer of legions.

Through the mist the Britons, Celtic in origin; saw the legions.

Row upon row of tightly packed troops, shields locked together!

Flanked on either side by cavalry.  Above the silence orders could

Be heard echoing across the field, the leather harness’s creaked

Metal chinking, horses stomping and snorting, in the stillness.

Through the mist came the first rays of sunlight glinting on sharpened

Swords and spearheads; horns began to blow as the steady

Stomp of the legions moved forward in formation.

Boudicca’s eyes peered out from a face of blue woe. Bow strings

In turn began to creak death, as archers pulled back on their bows.

A slow chant from the Iceni, slow at first, began to build into a crescendo

Of noise, as the boom, boom of sword and axe rapped against wood shields.

Boudicca flame haired warrior queen stood proud and fearless on her chariot;

Daughters on each side of her, defiant against Gaius Suetonius Pauline’s

And the might of Rome.

Oh what a sight it must have been!
willy knight Apr 2010
"See! warp is stretched
For warriors' fall,
Lo! weft in loom

'Tis wet with blood;
Now fight foreboding,
'Neath friends' swift fingers,
Our grey woof waxeth
With war's alarms,
Our warp bloodred,
Our weft corseblue.

"This woof is y-woven
With entrails of men,
This warp is hardweighted
With heads of the slain,
Spears blood-besprinkled
For spindles we use,
Our loom ironbound,
And arrows our reels;
With swords for our shuttles
This war-woof we work;
So weave we, weird sisters,
Our warwinning woof.

"Now Warwinner walketh
To weave in her turn,
Now Swordswinger steppeth,
Now Swiftstroke, now Storm;
When they speed the shuttle
How spearheads shall flash!
Shields crash, and helmgnawer
On harness bite hard!

"Wind we, wind swiftly
Our warwinning woof
Woof erst for king youthful
Foredoomed as his own,
Forth now we will ride,
Then through the ranks rushing
Be busy where friends
Blows blithe give and take.

"Wind we, wind swiftly
Our warwinning woof,
After that let us steadfastly
Stand by the brave king;
Then men shall mark mournful
Their shields red with gore,
How Swordstroke and Spearthrust
Stood stout by the prince.

"Wind we, wind swiftly
Our warwinning woof.
When sword-bearing rovers
To banners rush on,
Mind, maidens, we spare not
One life in the fray!
We corse-choosing sisters
Have charge of the slain.

"Now new-coming nations
That island shall rule,
Who on outlying headlands
Abode ere the fight;
I say that King mighty
To death now is done,
Now low before spearpoint
That Earl bows his head.

"Soon over all Ersemen
Sharp sorrow shall fall,
That woe to those warriors
Shall wane nevermore;
Our woof now is woven.
Now battlefield waste,
O'er land and o'er water
War tidings shall leap.

"Now surely 'tis gruesome
To gaze all around.
When bloodred through heaven
Drives cloudrack o'er head;
Air soon shall be deep hued
With dying men's blood
When this our spaedom
Comes speedy to pass.

"So cheerily chant we
Charms for the young king,
Come maidens lift loudly
His warwinning lay;
Let him who now listens
Learn well with his ears
And gladden brave swordsmen
With bursts of war's song.

"Now mount we our horses,
Now bare we our brands,
Now haste we hard, maidens,
Hence far, far, away."
Njal's Saga
Carl Hoek Sep 2016
hey every one
I've decided to **** my compactor
my professional lock
just a post
without digging a ditch
or
securing a post

hover like that in pink sky
the creature that lives off
blue sky

my heart aims
misses
my lungs
breathe
misses

and i'm supposed to call you
what again
oh yes
out of respect

Anger, no.:  just like me
Passion.: yet distant and false
Death discussions

long live all


it misses
struggles to me then and to everyone
Bryce Nov 2018
They are spearheads
The trees, stewsters in the Grey
On Somber window.
Helios Rietberg Feb 2012
Life speaks itself at the flicker of a lantern
bridging the gaps of the heart strings for a fraction
and then disappearing

Melting on the silence of the fireflies like
dreaming clouds of the winter
effervescent blindly

Life spearheads itself into the deepest chasms
watchful for the oncoming spurts of unknown
and frightful always

Whispering on the darkness of watchers
whisking down the road of the past
coloured dark blue and grey

Life has passed me by like time
crawling along at its own providence
harming no one
© Helios Rietberg, February 2012
Sean L Sep 2012
In the car, making your way along the highway,
You catch a glimpse of a deer behind a thicket in the forest.
Without thinking twice, you slow your car to a halt.

As you open the door, you feel the cold air of the mountain pass.
The sound of rushing water isn't far from you.
You go around to the back of your car and pull something out of the trunk.

In the next days, few people drive by your car on that isolated stretch of highway.
The door and trunk were left open, seemingly awaiting your momentary return.
No one is inclined to investigate, though you are nowhere to be found.

After a couple of days, someone reports the abandon car, and an officer arrives.
A quick search through the car reveals a collection of spearheads.
The officer calls the police station for assistance, then proceeds into the forest alone.

Making his way through the thicket, the officer finds the handle of a spear shaft.
Continuing in further, the roar of the river begins filling his ears.
Upon approaching the river's edge, he catches a glimpse of a deer across the river.
~What A Smile Can Do~

These days any smile could make me happy.

You could call it opening up or closing it all off. Closing up shop, come one come all. Sometimes it feels as if I'm not even there, but you are. I can't help but think as I feel this way at the bottom of my body, like some mechanical gear is flaking off its rust.

I'm watching my dad smile while he speaks to me and there's this similarity between he and I. I think there's a Mona Lisa Effect in effect. He loses track and so do I. I was thinking of you and your hair and how it used to smell and then I saw a picture of you and it was short and lighter and I thought of someone else, even though you are still beautiful.

That other person smiles like a friend I never knew.

I hold for a moment and something changes again. I ain't feelin' it.

But I could feel anything, if I remember right. My eyes roll back further and they trip over themselves.
I could totally feel you and me in the bathroom, specifically you nearly dipping into the sink and me with my eyes half open staring at a pair of beautiful bucket lids over your own.

And her smile is goofy. Goofy *****. Happy for you. It makes me smile too.

I've been getting into this specific branch of chemistry recently. Really getting into how the science works in the vials of chemicals in my brain that are constantly mixing. He tells me oxygen isn't good for the chemicals and that I'm ruining things. "Stitch it back up and leave it alone." He's my lab assistant but we get separate grades, so I don't give a **** what he says and I let him know. I give him a handshake now and after the forty five minutes are up and the bell rings. We'll get a good grade together, I know.

And your teeth are really straight and I remember telling you that once. I've got ****** up teeth even though they make a great grin. I've got some cavities, but they don't hurt anymore, in fact, the dentists say they're looking fine, go home, take a toy with you on your walk out the door and play with it in the car all the way back home. It's a forty five minute drive so I give him a handshake as I leave. It's a nice smile you've got, like a Mona Lisa effect - so I avoid your eyes.

And there was this smile the other day when God was whispering little miracles in the weather clouds and in the timing of things, even though it was the briefest grin I'd ever seen. Her eyes are like deep dug out trenches, ready for World War III. I might not see her again like I did that day, but that's just how God works sometimes.

My eyes wander a lot these days. They remind me of my dad wandering back home from the bar in his car. He wanders into the house and tells me a story about cutting another man's wedding ring off after he got a divorce with a pair of pliers, but he brought the sledgehammer for an effect, what do you want for dinner? His eyes still wander at the fish on the counter at five am, to television at six, to a king size bed. His face deconstructs and the wandering halts over the sound of infomercials blaring from his room.

But that's not true. My eyes are becoming more like yours. I'm letting them open up, close them all off, come one come all, with diligence. Your smile and eyes are like waves in constructive interference. Everything returns to the sea once the water comes over and all the spearheads, spoiled meat and negligent treaties sink to the bottom. It's a cool little party down there. Everyone gets along and they smile just like you do.

I'd like to think my smile can do that too.
Ira Desmond Aug 2010
We smear red clay on our faces,
under our eyes and along our cheekbones,

across the forehead and down the nose.
It is something like war paint.

The noon sun watches intently
as we sharpen our spearheads.

Our naked backs begin to sweat
and glisten in the light:  hunched,

preparing.
The Prophet stretches in wrenching pain
across the continent.
We travel south across His chest
where Roman spearheads
have cut into the landscape.
Scratches in somewhat healed asphalt
and burnt forests in a pathetic wasteland of violence
and decay.
East and west, trailing hundreds of strained veins
toward nails like pins on a map.
Seek out the latitude on
elliptical scopes
in honor of something.
The Slave
and
The Savior
Leroy J Harris Mar 2014
Black and red draped over ramparts.
Built by men in squalor.
Winked at us as we left.
It all behind.

Our parents lived outside these walls.
In a village far from here.
Could we return we might find.
That which we'd lost.

Friendship and fun.
Play that didn't come undone.
Whenever someone uninvolved.
Got themselves involved.

East of castle Sanguinair.
Blackened by the tide.
His men washed clean by victory.
Entertained by wine.

Came by the boatful.
Prideful, brash and boastful.
Little mind they gave ahead.
Spearheads laughed and bows did cry.
As helms marched ahead attached to mail and grime.
Many battles tempered fear with wisdom.
The knowledge that they knew.
Aided spear and guided shaft.
Passing through and through.

Once long ago it was but black and nothing else.
Now a splash of wine.
Had colored castle Sanguinair.
A color most divine.
Douglas Balmain Jun 2020
Behind the brilliant light
that gifts life to our world
burns a collapsing force
fueled by the remnants
of untold millions of years
of pulverized matter
and dispersed gases,
excited and united by
the catalytic force
of Universal disturbance.

Dive into your veins,
past the deep red color of love,
zoom in until you can see
those entities that exist
within your blood’s flowing warmth,
and you will see Warriors
locked in Lacedaemon wars.

Be Open when you feel.
Be Whole when you act.
Life is no place for ideals:
Justice demands a Judge.

We must step onto our fields of battle
solemn and reverent,
willing to plunge our spearheads
into the chests of others
who will die staring back at us
through our own eyes.

If you cannot feel these truths,
turn yourself around
and break your spear in half
on your walk back home.
Originally published at https://douglasbalmain.com/reaction.html
Beatrice Oct 2020
Lances of evening sun run through trails
Left spearheads of gold behind water rails.
The dene smell that came from a hawthorn on
The turn, had lost all its putrid scents
Of spring. Blown in the night, echoed
By the corpses of snowberries, marble
Spoils of fungus adorned the rorqual’s throat
Of ridged bark on the trunk of a fallen
Tree. Two blackbirds in a drunken squabble
Over fermented windfalls, were just missed
By a pushchair where a low flying toddler
Extemporised words into birdlike cries.
An umbrella was caught up and fluttered
To dry its wet wings like a cormorant;
As mopheads in the shrubbery tumbled
From sky hydrangea to rhubarb crumble.
If you read this poem fyi a rorqual is a slim whale with a grooved throat (as far as I know there two types fins and blues).

— The End —