The Sword

The sword glows softly in the moonlight, feeding on the dreams of the dead.
His hands were covered with blood, dark and rich red in intensity.
She was dead, it was as if he had killed her himself.
His mind never quiets during the night, sleep is impossible.
He was a knight, he was supposed to protect her.
Her, the beautiful princess.
How can she be gone from his eyes for the rest of time?
War, he said, terrible war.
A country divided by turmoil.
It destroys the best of people and it improves the worst of people, changing them into an army of clay soldiers ever so mold-able, easily replaced.
War, the game to solve all your problems,
Just kill millions of people first.

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Although it is cloudy,
The sun still shines.
The wind is brushing against me, a lively breath.
Shimmering treetops like emeralds on a Queens ring,
Butterflies landing on my hands, their wings cloth of silk.
The floral scent of flowers overflowing my nose.
White mushrooms, a faery circle,
And many other magical occurrences.

The butterflies fluttered all around her.
Three or four or maybe more, I couldn’t count.
They were as blue as the Caribbean Sea, and as blue as her soul.

They would land on her hands once in a while,
As if she was some kind of nectar emitting flower,
And she would laugh and smile like they were the best of friends.

Although I think she wanted to fly and join them on their journey.
Her eyes were full of so much longing,
But alas, she is no butterfly.

The Underdog

Even though I speak, no one hears me.
My voice is as overlooked as a background actor. But the people are only deaf, it’s no wonder.
Even though I walk, no one sees me.
My movements are as unnoticed as a ballerina in the far left. But the people are only blind, it’s no wonder.
Even though I help, no one feels me.
My hands are as unwanted as extra help in the kitchen. But the people are only paralysed, it’s no wonder.
People only hear what they want to hear, only see what they want to see, and feel what they want to feel.
And some things are left out in that process.

Can you reach in the sky and touch the stars?
No, I don’t think so.
Have you ever tried, it’s not difficult?
Well, no, not really.
All you do is think of all your hopes and you wish with all of your heart and it happens.
Like this?
Yes, now you get it.
What’s to say that my dreams come true?
Problems occur all the time but if you keep on dreaming and believing, eventually you’ll realise your dreams.

Can you reach in the sky and touch the stars?
No, I don’t think so.
Have you ever tried, it’s not difficult?
Well, no, not really.
All you do is think of all your hopes and you wish with all of your heart and it happens.
Like this?
Yes, now you get it.
What’s to say that my dreams come true?
Problems occur all the time but if you keep on dreaming and believing, eventually you’ll realise your dreams.

Pure Magic

She is pure magic, chanting spells better than anyone else. She was intelligent, but not in the usual way that intelligent people usually are. She could make a connection with people and different things and just blow everyone’s mind away. Her smile was like the sun, bright flavescent, she could light up the room. Her eyes were as green as a freshly brewed healing potion, swirling around constantly always changing.
Her persona was as whimsical as a spell book, captivating you into the words slowly until eventually all sense of time is lost.

I strike a match,
Creating patches of light on the wall,
As I make my walk down the hall.
I saw a mirror,
My face within
And shadowed walls.

In this night, the light is black.
Please, tell me the name of the young girl whose face I see within the glass.
What destiny she holds, slaying the monster and delivering everyone from a cycle of torment.

The stars, once dark as unlit candles would shine just as bright as her heart.
And she would save us all but she would die,
Die of poison from the monsters fangs
And the Valkyrie would carry her on to the afterlife, this girl would be immortalised for many years past but eventually time will sweep away from people much like the shadows of the early morn and she will be lost in the distance of man’s heart.

Raindrops blur the suburbs into a soft kaleidoscope of misery.
There are lost souls, endlessly wandering in search for shelter.
Wet hair is plastered to the faces of young children playing kickball, mothers crying out their names.
Harsh roars of the wind cut down old residential homes, pieces scattering everywhere, an unseemly mess.
But eventually the storm fades away and the sound of the cicadas flood the night with the never ending cycle of nature’s battles and nature’s joy.

Is this a memory or a dream?
My mind is hazy, like an unfamiliar voice on a jukebox.
I can’t seem to remember what I need to remember.

Is this a memory or a dream?
I want to remember the truth and not be trapped in servitude of forgotten news,
But everything isn’t as it used to be and now I know not of what once was me.

Is this a memory or a dream?
A massive stack of cemented bricks keep me prisoner on the other side, the other truth,
But surely there must be some way around if I only had the heart to remember.