Smell the air, its presence holds a sense of dread.
The rising sun doth stain the clouds, a brilliant red
A silence now leaves all forlorn
And wondering, but seems to warn,
Of a loud, chaotic storm,
To wake the dead.
Now look upon the meadow fair, and lively
Pink flowers clash against blue sky, with rivalry
And laughing there among the weeds,
A sunlit stream with stalks of reeds,
Away, into a cave it leads,
Entirely.
Now riding comes the hero brave, from tales of lore,
He gallops, then dismounts his horse, and kneels before,
The stream. He stops to wet his face,
And stares into the darkened space
Of cave. His heart-beat skips a pace,
Then rushing, roars.
Inside the cave, a sleeping beast peacefully lies
Unconcious, so it cannot see, or realize,
This hero bold, this hero brave,
Disturbing sanctity of cave,
Who on a mission sad and grave,
Sweeps past his eyes.
The low-pitched squeak of armor wakes the wing'ed wyrm,
One scaled eyelid lifts a crack, the scene is learned;
The soldier kneels to ask his Lord
For courage. With a final word,
He stands and draws his gleaming sword,
His fear returns.
The giant lizard bucks and roars, and hero flees,
As dragon takes pursuit, a rustling, gentle breeze,
Sweeps the faces of the stones,
Sets the combats' dreary tone,
And leaves two hunters all alone,
Among the trees.
The fiery rage of Dragon turns the Earth to ash,
As elements combine and strike, their standards flash,
The knight seeks shelter from a rock,
As flames sweep by, and coldly talk
Of death. The knight creeps out to stalk,
A sporting dash.
The dragon smells the summer air with just disdain,
It's rife with the confusing scents of morning rain,
The shadows hide a stretching bow,
The arrow sings to just below,
The wing. The dragon feels the blow,
A piercing pain.
As roundabout the monster turns into the shade,
His eyes meet with the figure's who has drawn his blade,
A moment then of mortal breath,
And then outpours the fiery death,
The knight is gone,the lizard left,
There on the glade.
The serpent makes a mournful and yet desperate call,
The open wound is pouring blood like leaves in fall,
A gasping thrash for Earthen air,
And then a silent, glassy glare,
A quiet statue lying there,
Great, gaunt and tall.
And now the orange shimmer of the setting sun,
Shows just how much the duel of taloned death has done,
A forest which was full of green,
Shows black and red upon the scene,
Blood and cinders dot the dream,
It's glory gone.
And far upon the westward ridge a minstrel stands,
The ink-tipped quill is busy in his shaking hands,
"The deed is done", the message states.
A single tear falls down to grace
The parchment, and to seal {with lace}
The graceful hand.
He mounts his horse, and off he rides, but wonders still,
For do we kill to live or do we live to kill?
For is it noble to destroy
All things that might disrupt our joy?
"Perhaps we are the serpents" ploys
The poet's will.
And as the darkness overbears the dimming dusk,
He laughs into his cloak. His horse still stirs the dust,
The scene of battle isnt done,
No side has lost, no side has won,
He gallops off to meet the dawn;
With human lust. |
Submission Name: Serpents
