The First Village (poem)

Going back to an older piece of something, this is a poem from 2009. It’s based on a fantasy story that I used to work on, and that has its roots in a separate story I started in my teenhood.

I haven’t touched that particular story in a long time, though through working on another fantasy story, realised they take place in the same land, separated by a great many years.

I tried attacking the poem source in more recent years. Back when Script Frenzy was still a thing, I made plans to rewrite the entire thing as a script, and hopefully use it as a jumping point into a full-blown novel. Didn’t happen.

I have no idea if I’ll ever write the attached story, though do have plans on that more recent story. Regardless, this is mine.

The First Village

The steely roar of shiny spears

thrust skyward, up into the air
cry over brazen shouts of brave men’s fears
and beckon death’s dark dead stare.

A man at the front calls out words of instruction,
“Hold your weapon, be steady, be cautious.
I have no desire for blatant destruction
there is no lamb to slaughter before us.”

He holds his blade up, thrusted into the sky,
and gives the final word to begin.
He knows not who, nor how many will die,
which faces will fall for his master’s sin.

The lieutenant rides first, on an ill-tempered steed,
“You heard the General! Onward to the village!”
The sense of restraint was not in his creed,
but instead a desire to murder and pillage.

It was the flames that came first, rained down from above
filling the air with screams and with smoke.
Encircling the village like a well-tailored glove,
ready for all the blood it would soak.

The second the March, like the clatter of coins.
Their spears finding those not yet dead from the fire.
Even the children, the last of past loins
had no escape from this murky quagmire.

The General came last, through the scorched rubble.
His eyes reddened by soot and despair.
The stench of burnt flesh wrought by the trouble,
suffocating each single breath he drew there.

Then quickly a figure lifts from a pile of ashes
A dagger in hand and eyes darting knives
Faster toward the general he dashes
ready to take his, for all the lost lives.

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