Mongolith

Wanderer reaches the great machine which hides itself among the stained-black clouds. There is death all around him, and insanity begins to creep into his bones and into his soul.

Its moonlit flutter

and endless gaze

to turn the waves a burning color.

I lay in this place

amendless blaze

of endless men, and princess mothers

a tin man waits among his grave

 soul torn apart

from hearts along parted ways.

"I do not know him", the tin man whispers,

to himself, among them disturbed

"I will not kill him", again he whispers

to himself, to none he figured.

The road itself began to glitter

as many sounds rumble on suns' setting home

"The fun begins to shudder", the tin man mutters

to himself, but I can hear him.

My glance to the horizon gives me chills

for past the hills, trees, the golden valleys,

are stained black and dripping red lines of mist,

the sky as maroon as a blood moon watching.

"I smell their foul" the tin man whispers

slightly louder than before.

 

II

 

The groans of age old hands

awake once more to a fierce and savage land

to ravage all, and to spill oceans of blood

of innocent

 and flood the earth

with bone and dirt.

Its metal arms again it screams, under buckling weight

under its hate,

lies avengeful hate.

The tin man watches through vacade of night,

through bloodshot eyes

and rusted pride

vacant eyes

 blank as marbled stone.

It watches me dream

and hears me moan

a dim little smile touches the tin man's cheeks

what devilish smile could touch those tin man's cheeks.

Still the earth shakes before me,

and if not for the trees,

if not for sleep

i would have seen,

mongolith arise from up above the mountain peak

Behind the veil so endlessly.

 

III

 

The waves of ash and fields of grass

spiral coming forth the whirlwind.

Behind the man with bloodstained hands

the trees appear to quake and quiver

They come alive,

like serpants slither(ing).

The earth growls its protest to the burning flame

and the tin man falls,

smiling in pain

to a pool of blood

and the spool of fate

runs its waiting game for the end of days.

Just above the treeline,

just around the mountain bend

a shape begins to lift itself up to the sky,

(the dark red sky)

reveiling one eye

which seems to grin.

Black, is what i thought,

black as shadow where little secret things crawl

falling into blackness

like an eternal wall.

smoke seems to issue off of its collosal back

tendrels of smoke,

circles mongolith restlessly.

I raise my hand up to shield the red glare

coming off the snow capped mountains,

as i fight to stay awake, perhaps to remain alive.

 

Author's Note

This is my first attempt at poetry. I just looked up my old stories and blogs from when I was a teenager and this is what I dug up. I hope it is enjoyable, just excuse some of the grammar because I haven't really had time to do a full edit on any of the three parts. I will however be writing more of these and possibly, if I ever get around to doing more than ten, I might compile them into a collection. Thanks everyone for reading and like I said before I hope you enjoy.

Reviews

[Frieda P]

First attempt, that's hard to believe. I was riveted from first line to last, it's more a story within your poetry. Enjoyed this one immensely.

Black, is what i thought,
black as shadow where little secret things crawl
falling into blackness
like an eternal wall.
smoke seems to issue off of its collosal back
tendrels of smoke

Need to clean up your spelling otherwise this piece is sheer perfection.

[MOON]

Lovely the flow ideas imagery.

[Ghost of Jupiter]

wow...this is really good, great imagery and concept. You should try doing more of your stories as poems :-)

[The Refined Poet]

This is actually a good piece. The mix of fairy tale, imagery, and real emotions combine to take the reader on the journey from start to finish. I read it three times and still finding elements that I missed in preceding reads. Great piece that has a timeless quality to it. A collection of pieces like this would certainly be great!

[J.L Hunter]

Well, this probably needs a revision, because a lot of the thoughts were slightly incoherant. The picture I was trying to paint is from a set of stories I'd like to write sometime in the future about this terrible machine coming up every thousand years or so to wreak destruction on the world.

[The Refined Poet]

I understand that completely... I had read in your comments that you would review and make edits... so what I stated had that in mind...