Nights Poem's

[Guest]

I'm going to use this topic as a little outlet for any poems I think up. They aren't good, but I like writing them. This one, acutally, is written from the point of view of a younger Night-Creeper.

Diamond of Black

Like Ozymandis whom's hand still clutches at his lost kindom,
I feel the emptiness fill me up inside.
The darkness smothering the flicking candle
That use to be a fire that roared.
The snow fell, the flowers grew,
The sun went across its arch and baked,
The leaves turned brown and fell away,
All the time I sat upon the bench
watching your tombstone as if it would escape.
And yet it never moves, you never rise,
from a sleep that shall last forever.
I still see your face, in the midst of night
eyes wide open and me still in your vision.
Your last choked breaths made my chest tight,
and I never feel that way anymore,
my cold dead heart becoming a fossil,
lost and crushed under the weight of my sorrow.
Maybe I'll find it one day, a Diamond of black...

[Guest]

This one came to me after reading something. It was about a man discovering thousand of skulls in the heart of london, all at the bottom of the Thames. It turns out, in the Roman era, the town of Londinium came under attack by Boudicia, a Highpreistess/Queen. A Roman legion was sent, but the general knew he was destined to fail, so he atempted to evacuate anyone that would came. This is the poem of Claudius, left behind with his mother and father and coming under attack by pre-historic Britons.

Warning: Extreme Violence. If you don't like it, turn away now. Yes, Now. Not now, because you've missed it. Oh well, I guess you better read ahead now.

The Fire Queen
The men held my head, laughing with such joy,
As my mother was hung from her neck.
The Druids, fould beings they were,
Cut her breasts off with such glee.
They forced them into her mouth,
and then took the needle and thread,
sowing up her lips forever.

Then they placed her upon a spike,
running the entire legth of her body.
I was sick, but they kept me straight,
the point raising out of her head,
like a Vesuvius spouting its red lava.

My father was dragged, screaming,
his hair pulled forefully on his head,
until they rested him against a boulder.
Men were feasting and laughing,
drinking the blood red wine,
as the druids cut his head off with an axe.
They then threw it into the water,
A sacrifice to their unholy gods.

She stood before me, the woman,
So strong and such a warrior,
bringing the Roman empire to its knee's.
Boudicia, her name, Queen of Britons.
Her hair as red as the flames,
that now burnt the many streets,
Londinuim being raised to the ground,
in the distance like some lost sunrise.

It was my turn upon the alter,
after I had watched my family die.
And they laid me there so harshly,
my face in my fathers blood,
I felt a drop from the axe above.
I knew where I would live now,
at the bottom of the river,
never to be found again.

[Guest]

I don't know where this comes from actually. I just had the urge and this is what came to me.

The Game

I played a Game today, by myself.
The Chess board, of witch I was on both sides
seemed to be an expanse of checkered war front,
with the White and Black pawns staring
so proudly and loyaly infront of them,
unable to catch each others eyes.
I glanced at the back lines,
Of Rook, Knight, Bishop and Queen,
and took them away, from both sides.

The White moved first, carefully,
stepping forward by one sqaure.
The Black, in defence of its Tyrant King,
strode forward two paces, defiantly.
The White, unlike its enemy, did no such thing.
Small steps were taken, moving the entire line
forward to their goal. The black Kings doom.
The black, in the way evil does,
Strode to take away the White pawns,
Who's comrads simply stood and allowed
to be taken from the board and placed beside
The Rook, Knight, Bishop and Queen.

And quickly, there were two pawns left.
I began to move the lazy kings,
who sluggishy made their moves,
so like that of the pawn.
Why is that this piece is so important,
yet moves so slow, like the hands of a clock?
I brought the kings together,
distanced by three black and white sqaures.
On the battlefield, King and King
Should never meet blades. So the end
Rested with those tiny pawns,
who stood so solemly apart.
Black made his move first,
taking away the White defender.
The king attacked mercilessly,
leaving only the lands two strong towers.

And I realised... I am the King.
Fighting for both White and Black,
making my long forgotten soul a Grey.

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