The Artful Poet
Poets never write, for they are artists. Strokes from paintbrush made of feathers cast we. Canvases begin to fill, the paint words. At completion, poets covet beauty. Art they make forever makes them great lords.
The Dictators We Call Poets
Tyrants of paper, We crack the whip that is our quill upon words' backs. We command them to become Beautiful, to show our pride.
Dost Thou Knoweth Not? War is Art!
The painters gather to the canvas now. Their instruments of art, unique in shape, Are dipped into the paint flowing within. They brush each other, paint slung ev'rywhere. The land begins to shine with crimson hues.
Death Comes to Me
A tragedy awaits my eyes today, for Death hath checked his schedule I hear. With scythe in hand, decends doth he to earth. Collecting toll today I owe is why He now reveals his truest face for me.
Nightmare
A land of woe and terror surrounds me. A black canvas, lit by the dismal glow of falling fire, blotted the sky. As I walk on the withered earth, an omnious, dark wind brushed my right hand, leaving a mark of death. A...
The Angel I Fear
Misery, the angel of tragedy, knocks on my door. I open the door, not knowing what awaited me. I gaze at the angel, so pitiful and dreary. She lifts her head, her eyes locking with mine. She walks in, wearing such a forlorn face. I walk back,...
Everlasting
Sleeping dreams wisp away, a Cavern's secret trove beckoning. Legends old enkindle weary Hearts, and adventure's sought over. Taverns' glistening jewels Spin the golden spiel further, Reaching high above onto Perilous peaks of fire. Wakes...