Notes About The Poem
Poetic Form: Metrical Tale
Inspired: 2022 August 22
Image: Warrior and Sword by Pixabay
Tale of the Last Warrior
Wouldst, such mortal traverse the crags of Ne'ermere tails,
tis a grayest hour whence Luna's twilight flits her crown whipped
freed of mnemonic shimmers.
Hail winds bade the cliffs fond too well,
the forest dwelleth quietude, erring not to wake ired beasts.
The Black fog rose amidst digits crag,
gorging deeply in a slithering bout,
its murky poking hazing to edge's where hast steep crevices befallen
debris burdens.
Forgiven enemies miserably hast to but exclaim vapid
excuse faltering, absent of morals that yield despair
heightens.
Invasive spirit's of Ne'ermere hatha steered lost souls to the steppes,
to the moors.
The ambling blood moon followed a selection of bane thoust chose for
dying, fast coming.
Inky's inscript on columbine petals are guarded riddle,
steeped in thine devil's brew of concoctions.
Constant a stirring from tri-conjurers and duo warlocks
of ruin, loss, and havoc--locals all of Ne'ermere.
A daring wraith bidst the gifts amassed of bless souls,
the voids of trifled entities of a doomsday.
Shortening the navigated souls in their mortal state of decay,
their tenuous grasp of wilted massive fibrous veins.
Remnants of a vigorous life surrender to their authentic demise via a
hall between perishing slow or death's blow.
Truly, a proper act of granting reassemblage their formers,
Earth's finality prompt sail to the sunrise of the ancients,
and a warriors welcoming.
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