Poetry Poems from Kathoran

Tempest

That Other Fella
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Well, since the move is still underway, I had a substantial amount of poetry from there. Anyway, here's the poems from Kathoran. <strong>In Flanders Field</strong> In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie, In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. <strong>The Demon of Razgriz</strong> <em>Amidst the eternal waves of time From a ripple of change shall the storm rise Out of the abyss peer the eyes of a demon Behold the Razgriz, its wings of black sheath The demon soars through dark skies Fear and death trail its shadow beneath Until men united wield a hallowed sabre In final reckoning, the beast is slain As the demon sleeps, man turns on man His own blood and madness soon cover the earth From the depths of despair awaken the Razgriz Its raven wings ablaze in majestic light.</em> <strong>The Conqueror Worm</strong> Lo! ’t is a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly— Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout, A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out—out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. These are the poems not written by me that I presented there. Others can/will bring over what they wrote probably later. Next post I'll present my self-written poems.


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Now for the poems I wrote myself. Before you guys say it, I know they suck. Both of them were written within ten minutes.








Rip Me Apart (a poem written when I was "moody")




Rip me apart




Tear me up




Reveal the wounds,




The thorns,




The pain inside.




Don't you know that




I am tortured?




I like the pain now...




It takes away the memories




Of shame




Of sadness




Of solitude.




You say that I should not?




These marks on my hand




Are my stigmata,




So go on... and




Rip me apart.








A Final Farewell (a terrible poem written as a farewell to Kathoran)




A final tear fell




Slowly, slowly




As it sank, it created ripples,




Bringing out a new dawn








I sat there, my wings broken




I sat there, wondering if this will end




I sat there, till you came




And showed me how to fly








Now a single feather




Falls from the sky




Onto a lake flat and crystilline




When it lands




Will this dream be shattered?








We are mere angels, waiting to break our wings and fly into the sky.




While we sit on the ground, weeping tears, and view a world torn asunder.




Let the angels fly.

 
Tempest said:
















































Now for the poems I wrote myself. Before you guys say it, I know they suck. Both of them were written within ten minutes.








Rip Me Apart (a poem written when I was "moody")




Rip me apart




Tear me up




Reveal the wounds,




The thorns,




The pain inside.




Don't you know that




I am tortured?




I like the pain now...




It takes away the memories




Of shame




Of sadness




Of solitude.




You say that I should not?




These marks on my hand




Are my stigmata,




So go on... and




Rip me apart.









I have one that is very similar to this. It goes something like this.


CRAWLING IN MY SKIN


THESE WOUNDS THEY WILL NOT HEAL


FEAR IS HOW I FALL


CONFUSING WHAT IS REAL


I know, it sucks. I wrote it in a minute.
 

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