Best Warlord Poems
So we cross this threshold of war as awful friends in freefall,
and with these trumpets and drums shaking the graves
of ancient days we bring forth instruments of death's call
through our very own homeland where the music of valor plays,
songs, poems and parades are already being written in the pulse of the people,
only the names of the victors and vanquished remain unknown,
yet both will be Roman, both will bleed, and both will reveal their soul's steel,
pallisades, seige towers and ballistas of big stones thrown
from town to town, from Arminium, Corfinium and to the Bay of Brundisium
the Italians of Rome have said to the Legions of Caesar save our home
seek no throne, carry not a crown, show the world that cruelty can be outdone
scourge the vile with the virtue of Clementia, make the Senate atone,
make not widows of Rome's daughters nor orphans of the innocent
bring a heartbeat of holiness back to these halls and hills where peace has been absent,
Bring a heartbeat of holiness back to these halls and hills where peace has been absent,
you've heard these honest entreaties and endearments
from mothers and elders, citizens, priests and from the militant,
we are not men who march on dreams,
we have not marched into Greece to starve and grovel
under the ritual yoke of this pseudo Republican army
headed by an overhyped hothead acting under an upper class spell,
I believe we were born to be on this battlefield's history,
we are inspired by unequalled Evocati leadership
veterans venomous in brute brilliance,
they have a myriad of mercenaries whose cause is only for coin on the hip
they outnumber us 6 to 1 on horse and 2 to 1 in the lines
most of Pompey's Legates have learned warfare from talk and books,
we've been taught the terror of triumph from where the heart looks...
J.A.B.
Alas, the long awaited warlord arrives
Dressed in promising attire,
Wearing hope like a battle gear
It gently lures us to a blind date .
With lots of hopes, wishes and dreams we yearn to fulfill our burning desire to live.
From blood to fetus we all are made to toil for months
Difficult a task it is, but toil we must !
A race many win and many lose
A race void of equal fairness to all laborers
Many labor alone, Some labor in twos, Others in threes and fours and a few in numbers close to tens
Some labor for weeks and are sacked before they meet life
Some toil and toil and eventually leave after kissing life once
A few who are lucky, toil for nine months, meet life in good condition and continue to search for answers till death finds them first.
The gift of air is given at the ninth month to successful laborers.
For many who received this gift, death became an apparition.
Life doesn’t treat us equally yet
We fight to remain laborers in the hands of life
We flee when death beckons
To present us with crowns as kings
Even though this warlord’s company settles for just anything,
You find out you are made to lick the fire and dance in the ashes of every bridge you burn
And constantly you are made to watch your past overrun your present as you seek the future
Cuz’ at every turn you’ll find a hand stirring your past
Leaving you to linger in the dents and wonts of your heart
Wondering what the future holds.
As unfair as this warlord is, its laws favor only the gender with a long gun in between their thighs,
Daily this warlord force these laborers to deal with the inner turmoil of doing what’s right or wrong.
For some the warlord allows freedom for evil
For others it punishes them for the thought of evil using a permanent supervisor named “conscience“
One wonders why the permanent supervisor only moves with selected few
And why death is an equal pay for all.
What happens to those who hunt humans in place of animals?
Oh! I learnt.
That death was the only fair master who paid all laborers equally.
And wait!
Did they call life after death “the underworld”?
How come rebirth truly exists?
How come no immortal ever told us mortals the story of the underworld?
Why does everyone clamor for this unfair warlord when the fair master hungers for laborers?
Small visions
Staggering insolence
muted souls pinned by vertebral thrusts
lay in feathered wasteland
Spinning tongues imperial platitudes
Right of passage misguided
impenetrable to the bone
The shake-up
Sharks teethe to flesh
an agent of defilable means
It scathes the soul
of the inveterate, the young
and feasts upon its own.
Libertas in the hands of warlords,
natural hardship, in the name of war,
License to kill.
For those who can gain lots,
obtained legislative favor,
overall pattern of bill.
Even rogue army cords.
In the end of guns gore,
Bloody warheads refill.
He smiles
An almost insane smile
Like an incomplete piece of mould
His handshake is stiff
It's as if his hand were dead to his whole body
He likes to play king
All bow around him
Like leaves being rustled by the wind
Him, the wind that changes destiny
In the boardroom
But my bark is worn out
To bend is to break it
And the branches are not fully grown
It hasn't even began to flower yet
So where shall my leaves fall from
But he is not yet done
He will continue to fight
Even when he is alone on the battlefield
Because it has been predetermined
That he shall be the warlord of the era
Battle or no battle
He shall continue to fight
Will he survive this time?