Bonus Poem: Named Her…

Mythos of war,
cries out for more,
with a viral pathogen,
that afflicts all that’s human.

It is not of this earth,
but sours its worth,
a genocidal concoction,
the worst man-made toxin.

There are but a few,
to save me and you,
but brow-beaten, betrayed,
their world’s been frayed.

With one foot in the grave,
they fight to save,
even hatred’s ferocity,
from unthinkable atrocity.

Fight for what’s right,
but know now their plight,
for we’ve no hope unless,
upon them freedom we bless.

It is a weapon,
insidious to threaten,
the curious nature,
of our genetic paper.

A drop of blood,
with science-like mud,
a dash of forethought,
and by death you are caught.

You need not inject it,
nor take a hot hit,
just breathe in,
or absorb through skin,

And you’ll be brought down.
Your genetics a clown.
For mad-men hath built her,
named her Syphon Filter.

Bonus Poem: You Died!

Skulls and torture,
blisters of pain,
boils on hollows,
that cry out your name.

Dark is the soul,
of the undead laid claim,
to the slaughtered foul,
in the wrath of rain.

Rank, rotten teeth,
in a smile from hell,
mired in the meek,
what bloody secrets you tell.

From the edge of a blade made of scorn,
to the tip of the tooth,
blows the war’s hallowed horn,
while in fire is the truth,
e’er to be reborn.

Seek out the sisters,
alone in the mists,
comfort the statues,
fallen amid trysts

And when from the edges of hell you return,
remember the souls of the wanton, forlorn,
For these are the creatures that like you will burn,
in the pits and fires, your souls to be torn.

Seek out the knowledge,
It cleverly fits,
in a narrative fashion,
that requires wits.

Remember to roll,
the dice to one side,
lest you see the toll,
once more; “You died!”

Poetry-Thing Thursday: The Elder Three

One of three,
the elder race,
are you happy,
in this place?

Was it how,
you were born,
into this world,
broken and torn
as the men blew,
the war’s horn?

Or did you come
to love’s embrace,
to hide from us,
your eternal face?

Was it your choice,
to be scorned,
ripped from time,
by the hallow formed?

Did it call to you,
god-like, unarmed?
Tell me now,
my love be warmed.

Is it you alone,
that lit the fires,
of earth and men,
and hatred’s pyres?

Was it the other two,
of your station,
that then flew,
from Earth’s libations?

I listen, hear,
but with fear,
for a dying breath,
of my only dear.
Always to learn,
never to steer,
though I wish
with all my tears.

Gentle three,
the elder race,
what have you done,
to this place?

We’ve no more food,
left to brood,
with bloody death,
our only mood.

What compulsion,
of yours awaits?
Fulfillment from torture?
Our only fates?

One of three,
the elder race,
you’ve known nothing,
but your place.
So here is man,
in his own space,
leave us be,
return to grace.