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Bashaw Steel


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The stomping in the wooded dark,


The glimpse of distant fire's spark.


The purple haze as dusk descends,


Hides all the forest denizens.


It's not just Bigfoot you might fear,


There's Dragons too, both far and near,


But though they next door may reside,


It is from YOU that they all hide.


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In the silence of the night,

     forward crept the blight.

It killed all but a few,

     destroyed everything we knew.


Each and every night,

       forward crept the blight.


In the light of the morning,

     were the sounds of mourning.

For bodies lay in their beds,

     a sight to stay in one's head.


Each and every night,

       forward crept the blight.


The look upon their face,

       as death they did embrace,

was still and cold,

      their bodies looking frail and old.


Each and every night,

      forward crept the blight.


Upon us the blight did come,

       it killed each of us in turn.

Our life it stole,

       destroying all that made us whole.


Each and every night,

      forward crept the blight..

Edited by Aethon

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I look at things with the indifference I once detested...

I lay in the armchair as in the hands of some god...

but no, I am not...why should I... be broken?


The voices of birds and the voices of dogs

all echo the same -

you really cannot expect much from life.


I attach myself to things with the loyalty of an old dog,

with the determination of the one

who doesn't want to die, but doesn't know how to live.


Tomorrow is another day, and I will stare at the horizon still...

Today I need to save my breath and put you to work...

There is no salvation, never was - just some sort of delight.

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Doesn't leave much room for interpretation, so someone might not enjoy this poem in the same way as with many of these beautiful works in the topic, but I hope these crude words prove to be tasty for some :)


"Behold this spirit of light,
Held in deathly grab tight!
Bring him back to life, 
And end this darkness-caused strife!
He dwells by water, our King Nad,
By all that's holy, restore the vigor that he had!"

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You are big in your victories,
King of ill-intention!
How long can you keep at it,
Will you make it go on until your pension...?
You forget about the shades,
And they will show you how hope fades!
Even your kind they lurk,
Their due sacrifice you always shirk!

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There once was this man, a servant of light,

He saw himself wise and gifted with might,

And maybe he was within his old land

And so his confidence got much out of hand. 


And foolish he was, this servant of light

To dwell into darkness, with water on sight

And blinded by greed he heeded no warning

And now all his people are deepened in mourning. 


But oh, they don't know..yes, fairness has spikes

It can be painful and deadly the moment it strikes

For darkness did not attempt to abuse

The treasures of light, no matter the use. 


And now, in this time,  the soul of a king

Burns in the graveyard where spirits don't sing

And now all his people cry "It's not right"

When all darkness did was punish his "light".

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Hate, it burns so bright.
Easily mistaken for The Light.
You feed your Shadow as you grow weak.
Is this then what you seek?
It is not me you hate,
But your heart's reflection.
One day You and He will meet.
It will be the end of both, ain´t that neat.
It is a sacred trust,
A Sacrifice if you must.
Sentinel sleeps, King guards the wall.
To protect the Darkness of all.
Edited by Azull

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my limbs are bound.

zealous in struggle

no escape is found

gross liquids bubble

viscous sludge traps

entangle my feet

no more running laps

xyloid tendrils meet

withering my soul

just feel so dull

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This is a poem entitled "Patience, Forgiveness, Anger"

There is a boat, out at sea.
Sometimes passengers board,
Or disembark as it pulls into port.
Thick cords trail behind the boat,
One for every passenger.
Deep in the water,
A weight pulls them down, out of sight.
Sometimes, someone wonders,
And tries to pull the weight up.
But the cords are very long,
And the weight wants to stay below.
Most people give up, after a while,
And let the weight pull the cord,
Back into the water.
It's rare for someone to work hard enough
To get the weight into the air.
Most people don't even know what will happen,
So leave it alone.
But some people,
They want to see,
And they decide to tie their cord.
Even if they stop drawing the cord in,
And let the weight fall under again,
The cord is never as long as it was.
These are the ones who raise the weight,
And find themselves in the water,
No boat around,
No idea what has happened,

Edited by Kyphis the Bard

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Alive is the long-lasting eye of disgrace;

A scar on the skin of a peach it has left.

Its gaze, it be scornful, dishonestly deft,

The skin of the peach it'll forever deface.


Embrace, when a sinfully loud voice will say:

"How ugly the skin of the peach has become,

Has its worth ever had been more than a plum?"

The image of your scar will thus never gray.




Though it won't be nigh,

Disgrace will suffuse.

And when will the peach know that the scar it bears

Has nothing to do with a wound of the flesh?

The blemish is cold and had never been fresh,

Its origin lies in the scar the tree shares.


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I don't see this finding expression in the realm, but am sad about it
Here goes...

I have sinned. The fire so big all around
I fired a shot, but the wall was too short
The wind sent it out of the court
Well I guess that's why a shot's called "fired"....

No green all around, just the faint sound
of flames picking up the little-left moss.
My luck won't grow till the noise stops.
From the black liquid tree, a rope drops.

My game is buried, for now
I haven't known like it another
I'd like to play, but can't forget how
if my how is sad, why even bother?

The bridge ahead is beautiful, the altar builds the home,
Many its warm roots welcome, alas forgetting some.
If winding roots are not enough, the wind at least will come
To take me to its waiting-place, until the lakes are one.


E: the last couplet was a mix of three incompatible thoughts...should be better now Edited by klatdees

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The Sunken Light
(based on the Oak Fort)

I was swimming for a path
hoping in a map
hoping it was true
not a trap

The tide built up its flow
till I faced a southward wrath
and in the child's heartful tow
hit a rock of hidden wealth.


Turning round, the waters glow
brighter now, or darker me
Waiting there beneath the flow
is the path I never see

In reflection life is hidden
never let the vision dry
in the air it's just a prison
in the water we can fly


I showed my fear
You smiled back

I come too near
the broken bridge, the wrath

in watching water
I see a path

your heart is here
I smile back Edited by klatdees

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When I was rummaging through my things trying to find something I found these two poems that I had written down about a year ago. (Yes, I know I've already posted one of them.)



ps. I also found the earlier versions with lines drawn through words, words inserted where there isn't room, arrows all over the place, a proper sprawling of the first one. I don't think it really should go in this thread if someone wants to see that stuff I'll gladly scan it and give a copy of it to them :)

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Please dont judge my form of poetry. Not all poetry rhymes ect. It comes from how you feel and whats in your Heart.

The Emptiness in a Hound

By A.H. (Blackshade rider)

As i ride around i feel nothing. Other than my toes and claws with numbness. 

I look around and yet i see nothing. Other than a black mist around me. 

So i hike my ears and hear nothing. Other than the sound of a peaceful voice.

So then i smell the air. Yet all i smell is the faint scent of fairy dust.

So i continue to roam. Roaming to find a home. 

One for me and one for my friend. He keeps watch over me.

As i do him.


But i still roam around. My toes and claws still numbing into the ground.

My eyes see nothing but blackness.

But i make up for it with my hearing and smelling.

Still i continue my search. A search of peace and search of fairy dust.

One day ill find a home. One day ill stop the roam.

One day

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On the theme of smelling, I will share this here.  It has been on my personal page for a while.


The Tiny Men

Day 73, Year 11

In this world, all hope seems to bide
until downward our wings we will guide
till we choose to lower our head
we burn blood in the cave where we're dead.
But my blood is alive thanks to you
and the demon that swallowed us knew
that the only thing keeping it true
was that blood in the head.
All along, pulling us through
It's still hard to believe that it's you
that anything's possible, true
when we follow the nose.
Tear down the center and tear down the tree
Hurry, before the gates close;
Hurry, while anything goes.
Tear down the chaos and let the pit be
Hurry, before the world knows;
Hurry, while tiny men doze.
Down here was the place for me
Down here was a place I could be.
But secretly, everyone knew
the only thing keeping it true
unspoken by all but a few

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At first I wasn't sure if the rumors were true.

Then the first swelling appeared, like spots of dew

demanding to be tasted, on in this case, scratched and bled.

I started to pay attention.


Then one day,

the first mosquito showed its silent head.

in the shower, round it flew

Too high for me, it instinctively knew.

I didn't know what to do.


For weeks and weeks it pestered me

(at first it was only one)

For weeks, it joined me for coffee

and I let it be, if it left me alone.

But then, it turned a bit lusty

and wanted my blood, still warm

and so (oh, the depravity)

it landed on my arm.


That was it.

That was the end.

I knew it right away.

I poised to make my move

but when I moved, it flew away.

But then I got a bit smarter

started moving all around

and waved my arms much  harder

till they made a windy sound.

Sure enough, it assumed I had opened the window

and didn't expect my swat

its blood that day, not mine did flow

and that was the end of that.


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He cut his ear and sent it to his love

He never got a good-enough reply

It is the way our hearts are making pace

It is the way our dreams wither and die

It is the way the core begins to rot

The outer shell looks good, but you do not.


She followed him until her feet were sore

He always promised this would be his last

It is the way the hope begins to crumble

It is the way the treachery arrives

It is the way the core begins to rot

The outer shell looks good, but you do not.

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Poetry like cleansing rain

brings a sunshine to one's greys


Not of malice, not of envious blame!

Not for judgement, not for shame!

Let mi give you some restrain:


Median, mean or likeliness

if you count, or sum or estimate

then you see this pattern there:


99 percent of them

were forgotten, blamed and shamed

rot in prisons, died in vain


statistically Poets lifes

end in sewer, burial ground.


So if you don't want this fate

stop write poems





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