Boys And Toys
The Wooden SwordAs I sit amidst a field of paper and words
My eyes stare out from a sea of swords
Yet how can I stand tall head to head
How can I stand up shoulder to shoulder
With the countless living and the dead
With those who stood firm to defy
To talk out loud
To walk so tall
When I am little, meek and small
To run together side by side
With the many great in a charging tide
When the helms of faction fiercely collide
When the impact would send me reeling
That I am thrown down to the ground
Trampled upon like a stray fallen child
A wounded warrior bleeds
But he would stand his ground
The beaten child weeps instead
Would the honest cry of pain
Become the howl of battle fury
Driving back the foes that surround
A stick gashes the ground, rising dust
A blade draws a line between loyalties
Where can I stand amongst the brave
Amongst the countless living and dead
A runt amongst the titans of legend
Fables of battle and courage sing to my ears
As I sit amidst a field of paper and words
My eyes stare out from a sea of swords
The one I really wish to strike down
Is that weak hapless child
To finally bleed and no longer weep
To have the man within finally stand
With a blade poised to finally cut
But I am just a little boy with a wooden sword
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Rust In Piece
The Curse Of The Silent
The air is dead
No tunes
No melody
The strings lay idle
And the bard lazes
Reeds are grown
Yet never blown
Will silence cry
Of a song unsung
Eyes are vacant
Unseeing
When the verses are gone
Words weathered off the stone
And fingerboards no longer strum
As the streams stop flowing
Faces in the crowd stop glowing
Hence the world is deafened
Once soulful keys l-l-l-l-l Weary and rust
The mind reduced to crawling
It no longer soars the skies
The faraway skies of imagination
Between deafness and sound devoid
Our ears are unsure which
Melancholy
Malady
The air is dead
No tunes
No melody
The strings lay idle
And the bard lazes
Reeds are grown
Yet never blown
Will silence cry
Of a song unsung
Eyes are vacant
Unseeing
When the verses are gone
Words weathered off the stone
And fingerboards no longer strum
As the streams stop flowing
Faces in the crowd stop glowing
Hence the world is deafened
Once soulful keys l-l-l-l-l Weary and rust
The mind reduced to crawling
It no longer soars the skies
The faraway skies of imagination
Between deafness and sound devoid
Our ears are unsure which
Melancholy
Malady
"It's hammer time!"
Father's Anvil - Steel BackThe stripes upon my back
They make me a better man
Every lash, every slash
Told me never again to slack
A thud across my shoulders
A ring throughout my soul
Every lash, every slash
The ring of metal on metal
The ring of mettle on mettle
Of the father's hammer
Against the anvil of my back
It is but the forging of spirit
The hardening of steel
The tears into shards
The making of a man
The making of a better man
From the hilt of my shin
To the edge of my chin
My heart is drawn across
Over the rack of my back
Stretched out thin like hard tack
Heat, beat, heat and beat
But no edge is finer
No edge more wield-worthy
Than the father's hammer
Take your hand off my back
If you wish it remain attached
It is my father's anvil
