Notes About The Poem
Imperfect, yes. Fun to write, very.
It Was A Call To Battle, Cried
Thou hast not died
It was a call to battle, cried
Half naked, beaten numb
Now all the gates swung wide
An uprising lifts the oppressors thumb
Awake, the pulse's quickened pace,
Braced for the worst to come
Worn armor of a fearless face
Battered breast of a gleaming courage
Oh, relic'd wrists, fettered and braced
Hands that scooped the swilled porridge
Take up the sword of the fallen slaver
Grasp the hilt and wield the blade
Thine undinted valor has won favor
The gods would see such dens unmade
Follow the light down the rank corridor
Where the slavers have been laid low
Past those felled in honor and disgrace
Which, is which, only the angels know
Make haste away from this place
lest ye suffer some mortal blow
Runneth long,
Stayeth strong,
‘Mongst the living thou belong
As he runneth along
His breath, his pulse, beat the song
Fall upon the blessed banks of the river
Slake thy thirst, wash the grime from thy face
Let the sun sooth and dispel thy cold shiver
As the far off din gives way to lasting silence
Let thy weariness be borne away by winged sleep
As weeps joyfully thine undying self reliance
Upon pebbled banks where no mortal may stumble
Beside the river's ceaseless babble
The rolling skies distant rumble
Dream.
Dream the smiling faces thou lived for
The warming flames of the promise swore
To hold them in thine arms once more
Cross the threshold, the swung upon door
Their tears, their faces
They lent strength when thy pulse was weak
Midst dream thy heart races
A tender caress, her blushing cheek
Now that freedom has been found
They are of the lost years thou dost seek
Somewhere a cock’s morning crow
Thou doth arise envigored, refreshed and sound
From out of thy periphery
A stamping steed counts three
With a thudding upon the ground
Nickering beside a river bickering
Thou lookest towards the brilliant sun
And doth listen for the sounds of gods snickering
Upon their latest chosen one
Aback the shining steed
As black as closed eyes clothed in night
A saddle of rich fine leather gleamed
A jeweled bit shimmered bright
He stroked the silkened neck, real it seemed
Astride he sat like a humble knight
Spurless; he heeled, and tugged the reins
Over yon hills did his old life call
He trod mud and mists splashing as it rained
He would be there soon and by nightfall
Alive again; in loving arms
Happy toils regained
He would tread soft, the dread befell
No other dear hearts need be stained
Regaling his days served in hell
For all is well that ends well
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