The mist driven darkened moment chose ominously to arise
I barely can identify humanities glimmer in my opponent’s hardened eyes
My concerted heart insists to beat thunderously, echoing in my throat
This piercing murderous gaze
I quietly consider being at the end of my rope
The demon’s voice cracks at me “Sir, the hour has come of your forgone demise”
My sword is still sheathed, lying still, it awakens slowly,
ponderously entertaining this harsh and lethal reprise.
“It begs no due question Sir, that you have conjured your spirit and have embraced a last resort, but dear Sir, may I beseech you to take heed of my staid retort”
A furrowed brow is aimed at me with an arrow’s intent, the distorted wound, that is his mouth, grimaces violently, demonically hellbent
“Dear Sir, how you have frittered earned coin to the earth,
there is no light that surrounds us, that could glimmer off this devilish contract’s roguish stillbirth”
“Lest we take of these measures and propagate to disdain, a quiet mind’s remonstrations, a quiet mind’s refrain”
“We shall never be burdened with loves to be lost, our truth of life being the ultimate cost”
The language of his body falters in the blink of an eye, but gathered he leans quickly, as my sword softly sighs.
In this brief moment of leaning, I too slightly turn,
my lead shoulder a beckoning for his lean to concur,
Our divide has faithfully lost depth and convexly convenes,
my executioner’s role of due course totters, vivid remorse inadvertently teems
As two friends who might be strolling at just too early a dawn
My new consort closely glances at my side, his mind clearly is thorned.
“Pray tell, reckless sir, how you come without a weapon to your death and not cower?
“O intent Sir, how have missed my swords dual-edged defence and victory,
this last portent hour”
Des writes poetry part-time