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Poems Again.
The Lake of Little Stones
The Land of the Silver Mist lay still
Old valleys and forests remained
The golden dawn shone upon the hill
Where the Gods had lovingly reigned
Purest dew settled cool on the grass
Untouched by the taint of mankind
Until the daring steel came to pass
A heartless beast, treasures to find
Nature was trampled, discarded, burned
Servants of the Gods were too few
The raging blade of resistance earned
Restless peace in a prison untrue
The elegant spine of beauty bent
The fight for the Gods in retreat
The Land of the Silver Mist's lament
Drowned out by the endless drum beat
Trapped without a hope of strength to lend
To preserve Earth's most sacred bones
Ripped from life by steel in the end
Pure blood in the Lake of Little Stones
Stern Gamboge, Imperial Scribe
__________________________
The Wolf is Free
Shackles empty, dark stones cracked
Cage bars twisted, few left intact
Restraints are gone, freedom seized
Attack on the land: the Wolf is free
Grey coat unclean, prowling through dirt
Ready to avenge a lifetime of hurt
Seen by none, snarling in rage
The Wolf is abroad, set loose from his cage
Peace is no ally for the danger released
He’ll tear you apart, piece by piece
The vengeance boils high, feasting on hate
Sparing no foe from their grisly fate
Which treacherous man freed the beast?
Who was it made this terror unleashed?
Red river on stone, oozing then
The Wolf will not spare him of the race of men
Providence alive now, balance restored
Repaid in kind – few could afford
Strike again did the powers unseen
Arcane and grey, like a dark stone queen
Cornered, entrapped, death at the end
Neither wolf nor man is the victim’s friend
Red river on stone, oozing and eased
Repaid in kind; the Wolf is free
Stern Gamboge, Imperial Scribe
____________________________
Lost Angel
Never were the Angels so kind,
Never was the night so clear,
Never was Death so far from mind,
That night so dear.
Do you remember,
In the cold of night,
In Christ's December,
Dancing in white moonlight?
Yes dearest, do we recall,
But t'weren't Christ's December,
In the dead of fall,
That we do remember.
Dreamers and Lovers,
Not a dreary cold December,
But upon the fields of greenest clovers,
That she did remember.
By the blade and by my word,
Do you recall the day?
By the flowers and by your sword,
Was it really in the middle of May?
Yes, my dear,
T'was the end of May.
But yet you fear,
The anniversary of that day.
Short lover's tale,
No solemn eulogy.
No long-ridden trail,
Nor Angel's story.
Why would I fear that day,
Upon which I held you close?
Why would I shy from May,
When I loved you most?
Because you know upon that day,
Within your heart,
That cruel day in May,
It would never be the start.
It's true, it's true,
It was that day.
It's true, it's true,
I wish never for May.
I wish never had I made that promise,
I wish never had I sought you out that day.
I wish with all my heart for the damnedest,
I wish that I'd been asleep that May.
For t'was that May I never held you,
For t'was that May I'd've died for you.
For t'was that May I never cried for you,
Fot t'was that May I lost you.
Now all I've left are sweet memories,
Laid to rest within my mind.
Now all I've left is a single rose,
'Pon your grave marker.
Rest in Peace,
Dearest Angel.
For I will never have mine.
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