Pagan leftovers

I am the pagan leftovers of a Roman takeover long ago, and a Batu Khan assault;

A Gothic bloodbath paints my veins in red tones;

Wends and Celts run through me, but these aren’t Enya chimes or Gregorian chants, I know;

I am a mutt. I bark at the wind at night.
I hear the rape song of ancient women written on my bones;

Anger easily seizes my throat. I don’t bury hatchets. I use the longbow to avenge primae noctis;

I escort ghosts stuck in purgatory to their rightful gallows.

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

You are out to claim justice for wrong doings. You sound pretty scary to me. A poem with much historical interest as well as being visual. An interesting and unusual poem to read. Thank you Maxwell.

Chris

[Maxwell Ryder]

Sorry to be scary. For effect only (I do have a temper though). I also, like you said wish we could write historical wrongs.

[Mrudula Rani]

The trajectory of your DNA from mongol invasion , all though history makes you more than a mutt. A worrier, a survivor.

[Maxwell Ryder]

I guess we do get stronger if our DNA does. So we are all surviving. Glad we can do so together, at this time in history m.

[Mrudula Rani]

Survival of the fittest!

[sette]

such a deep poem, the historical context provided a beautiful background to the poem

[Maxwell Ryder]

We are just historical recombinant DNA chains. Thank you, Sette, for your knowledge and appreciation.