Short Broadsword Poems

Like a broadsword through my empty chest,
Your words hurt, though said in jest.

I returned your anger with only laughter,
Your words hurt, you cared not after.

My soul I spilled but you didn’t care,
Your words hurt, my walls stripped bare.

My heart I was ready to give,
Your words hurt, too much to live....

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In my secret heart I’ve felt
Like a blood-crazed Celt,
Scottish, Irish, either one,
Killing Britons with my gun.

Or with broadsword or with knife,
Dirk, or dagger, taking life
In an Ulster alleyway,
Or Culloden Moor that day.

Smoke and blood on heather grass,
Celtic reverie must pass,
Like a distant, dimming dream
Drowning in a dank, swift stream....

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Oh death your sting will plea
rejoice cancerous vile flesh.
And scab bandages the angel's plea.
of bliss to rest from arrogant men.

Mode I do abhor the card
casting of my flesh moray.
Lipstick stains and gill vanguard
tears swift by tram alleyway.

My memories the broadsword
thing left to hold me to thane.
Womb called life resale abhorred
permeability train.
Headed in the quest of
finality....

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Sinking into me
This silver broadsword
Pull it from my chest

Sheathe it in your gold
Transmuted from my ash
Collected from our final clash

Lying atop a branch
Atop the mighty tree
Born from my death

Reach down, angel
Pull me from the dirt
I can't see the world

Underneath your light
The glare is far too strong
I've stared for too long

The world is born again
You've learned to fly again
I'm buried once again...

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