Even the most eloquent of words cannot fully persuade the imagery that is the languid beauty of those caught in the first throes of death. Pinned beneath a sword of silver, rubies stain the ground beneath the maiden warrior, framed by the thin gold, creating a backdrop against which her body is immortalized as a memory, sharp in the mind. It is only until she is listed under the forgotten tragedies of the old years that she loses her beauty. Worms may have eaten away ivory skin, blood dried to dust, body burnt to ash, but forever was the moment of her death, witnessed by honorable comrades, immortalized in beauty. Ravens could have taken away sapphire eyes, the hair fallen away, and teeth rotten, but in the eyes of her dear fellows, she was never more beautiful than the moment that they had lost her to self sacrifice. One fair against a cold sword intended on taking the lives of many.
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This journal shall now be dedicated to loose prose, and brainstorming. Unfortunately, the taking of a poem and bending it beyond recognition, and releasing it with my name attached, along with the stealing of a piece of short story, has broken my willingness to share works that have been refined, and real work gone into them.
The_Scarlet_Lark · Tue Jun 07, 2011 @ 03:04am · 0 Comments |