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Literature Text
Winterspell I: When the Sun Dawned
Over the northern unhomely barren
The morning dew sparkles in the sunrise
Weary eyes see the flight of the serin
Leaving oneself only to realize
Staying means making a deal with Charon
A wanderer starts to idealize
"'Twas nought my call; I seek it lest befell
'pon my eyes, the winters thus exiling
me, to these withering lands - to the Hell
Where Death will be free, her voice calls, chanting
Must I be led to my way" - sounds of bells
He heard from afar and went answering...
Upon this empty land of dead
Dare this wanderer carry on,
Dare he tread this here route ahead?
He was drawn by the bitter dawn
The sound of the bells fills his head
Before him, image of a swan.
Lo! How much distance have my feet traversed
That I find myself beholding the realm
that sight, a visage of the blessings entrust
Upon the people residing, to them
The Wanderer would find refuge, the hearse
Of the wasteland was broken - at Swan's Helm
The cold darkness slowly creeps in
Delusions start to fade away
The soft sound of a violin
The guide of those who lost their way
Death greeted him with a dark grin
As he approached his mortal prey
At Swan's Helm did he hope to find shelter
As he made his way, passing caravans
The sound of people alive, fell a tear
But none noticed, left to pursue their plans
'Fore Charon knows thought the sad wanderer
Who's tear had fallen, like his Motherlands
‘’Leave me in my poor misery.’’
The man thought falling on his knees,
‘’Leave me in my sad memory.’’
His heart stung by a thousand bees,
‘’Let me forgot my own history.
I beg you death, I beg you please’’
Thus begins this tale, which we hear and tell
Of the Wanderer who ran from Noodlot
For all thus meant to be, there waited hell
The dark clouds that gathered outside, that called,
For darkness thus cried, "This is where you fell;
Come, embrace your fate, soon you'll join your lot."
Over the northern unhomely barren
The morning dew sparkles in the sunrise
Weary eyes see the flight of the serin
Leaving oneself only to realize
Staying means making a deal with Charon
A wanderer starts to idealize
"'Twas nought my call; I seek it lest befell
'pon my eyes, the winters thus exiling
me, to these withering lands - to the Hell
Where Death will be free, her voice calls, chanting
Must I be led to my way" - sounds of bells
He heard from afar and went answering...
Upon this empty land of dead
Dare this wanderer carry on,
Dare he tread this here route ahead?
He was drawn by the bitter dawn
The sound of the bells fills his head
Before him, image of a swan.
Lo! How much distance have my feet traversed
That I find myself beholding the realm
that sight, a visage of the blessings entrust
Upon the people residing, to them
The Wanderer would find refuge, the hearse
Of the wasteland was broken - at Swan's Helm
The cold darkness slowly creeps in
Delusions start to fade away
The soft sound of a violin
The guide of those who lost their way
Death greeted him with a dark grin
As he approached his mortal prey
At Swan's Helm did he hope to find shelter
As he made his way, passing caravans
The sound of people alive, fell a tear
But none noticed, left to pursue their plans
'Fore Charon knows thought the sad wanderer
Who's tear had fallen, like his Motherlands
‘’Leave me in my poor misery.’’
The man thought falling on his knees,
‘’Leave me in my sad memory.’’
His heart stung by a thousand bees,
‘’Let me forgot my own history.
I beg you death, I beg you please’’
Thus begins this tale, which we hear and tell
Of the Wanderer who ran from Noodlot
For all thus meant to be, there waited hell
The dark clouds that gathered outside, that called,
For darkness thus cried, "This is where you fell;
Come, embrace your fate, soon you'll join your lot."
Literature
The Fading, Muted Lamps We Are
The Fading, Muted Lamps We Are there’s a place, besides this one one where we actually belong and it’s not that we’re unneeded there but, perhaps here is not yet ruined enough for those who’ll deserve it next things move in cycles just like how the dead don’t stay in the clothes we bury them in, in either place and there will, eventually be nothing left of the cities where they, and we, lived much of our lives lives clothed in nothing but a collective memory of pedestrian frictions and a ragged grasp of cause and effect there is a link between how long you live and how long you wait to admit you don’t want to and it’s a black hole strung somewhere between the stars we think resemble us and the fading, muted lamps we are our memory burns slowly not like stars, but cooler and louder like blood rushing back into the oxygen-starved set of vessels we pilot things move, with or without us
Literature
hemmingway's
You can’t ask for a good poem. You can tease a poem, write it a slip, write a note to the doctor in curse and verse asking for medicine to make you a bit hazy. You can drink big mouthfuls, so you trip on the way out of the bar, into a man, a bear, who’ll give you something to write about. You can seal your lips or you can deal. This is the goal. You can’t ask for a ride home or a dollar, a fine, a fee your skirt collects on the way out. You gather that spare change because it’s your calling, your clutch, chicks to a hen. Just like you gather a dozen words to fit in holes and to paper-pale on the wall. Your call. Your ball; did you really think that would go over easy? Did you think poems cared about you? You're like a dog snuggling in with bones. Alone. You come home. The house is so dusty now. Your desk has so many bottles, and so little lines. You sit down to write down your account of what went down but you put the pen down and you look out at the sun down and
Literature
solas
Water drips from the ceiling Pooling at my feet in the damp; The last light has left my lamp, Nothing to penetrate the feeling. A long, dark, winding corridor, With walls of stone Doomed to become my home, Hidden away forevermore. My hands are scraped, Bloodied, bruised, Determination abused; But my fight has not escaped. I claw my way forward Shivering on the ground; Voices echo all around; Where’s the door I fight toward? My ankle’s wrapped in dark tendrils, Dragging me back to the depths; A tight grip I won’t accept, C’mon, it’s just not helpful. My lamp flickers, rebirth of light; Casting shadows, My enemy illuminated in the glow: I am my own plight.
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Here it is, a collab series between shehrozeameen and Koratoshisfriend.
Ten poems based on ten songs, but one story and plot themed around them. Do you dare to venture where the wanderer traverses?
Song 1 (Koratoshisfriend's choice) - Two Steps from Hell - Winterspell"
Ten poems based on ten songs, but one story and plot themed around them. Do you dare to venture where the wanderer traverses?
Song 1 (Koratoshisfriend's choice) - Two Steps from Hell - Winterspell"
His piece in his gallery. Also check out his other stuff, he is amazing. 
Comments23
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The fifth, sixth and seventh stanza are simply brilliant.I loved the reference to Charon.
Lovely imagerey, truly.