The Harbinger

Huff…

Huff…

Huff…

Huff…

 

Rhythmic paces fleetly surpassed,

The speed of his languished ticker;

Disrobed of boon, destined for outcast,

He races, bearing the account of woe.

 

Visions of his troubled cerebrum,

A likeness to a pleating of misty endearments,

Soon writhed with estranged thoughts of freedom;

Crushing dolefully onto a seethed parchment.

 

Having sprinted thro’ three nights and days,

Flushed with an unrested fever,

He came to an illusion of being set ablaze,

‘Tis only an amusement, no shocker!

 

O’ how this man still breathes;

As he thought of his virtuous fair wife,

‘Twill soon be a bond of sixty-five years,

Had she naught plunged to the nether with strife!

 

Harshly acquainted war grounds nigh,

He loomed viably stricken,

Fleeing forests of sanguinary outcry;

Reasoning the calculated life of a bushman.

 

“ ‘Tis best I be cut.” Thought he,

“ Than by hands of peasants, I be caught!”

For peasants dealt with outcasts wickedly;

Bowing to the ground, he wept with distraught.

 

Thus, he succumbed on the spot;

Many passed by, yet none paid any heed,

‘Till the hour, the adversary came, unsought,

And knelt by the corpse of the Harbinger’s bed;

 

He bestowed a lily into the man’s rotted hand,

In place of the molded, maggoty parchment,

Which has become an heirloom, back in his homeland;

After having slain each and e’ry tyrant.

 

 

-Leah

Reviews

[John Patrick Robbins AK..]

You have a true voice as a poet very dark but I always admire thoose types of writes none the less very well done Leah