The troll rears its ugly head,
Drool slips from his tainted lips,
His tattered shirt, painted deep red,
Skulls dangling from his hips...
Deep green runs his blood,
Oily black hair,
Pupils brown, cloudly as mud,
Skeletons strewn about his lair...
All fear his daunting walk,
He trembles the Earth with his stone feet,
All are silenced at his viciferous talk,
None of the townspeople wish to meet...
I stand in front and behold,
Some call it blatant stupidity,
I call it being openly bold,
I fight for salvation and continuity...
I stand, clad in blinding armor,
Fearing no man... no monster,
Now a knight, but once a mere farmer,
In the end, I will conquer...
Metal strikes bone,
Lightning flashes, thunder cracks,
Both he and I, standing a top a wobbling stone,
Except I have a dark, endless hole to my back...
The fight rages on,
Blow after blow we fight,
A victor shall emerge at dawn,
But now we tarry in the night...
The sun, a sign of hope, peaks gently over the hill,
Rivers run of the blood sp
WinterWinter11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The old man smiles through clear blue eyes
and skies embracing fertile clouds
expectant with fractal flake children.
He doffs his hat of hazy mist
for geriatric trees, bald heads
displaying their crinkled-wood wisdom.
One hand adjusts his bare-earth tweed
to smooth the frost on collar hills
and straighten a river-ice necktie.
He wanders, smiling at his world
unfurled in tasteful winter shades
now painted on seasonal canvas.