Poem
The richness of my terror is match by your error
The mistakes of how many missed takes performed
Can reform by better lack of judgment
Is my mentality your fundamental craving or more to the point your sensuality
My uniqueness is the spice in your rice
That bland not tasting like a meal only to feel like a satisfying ordeal
Come back better or not at all because my nails will claw
Not in your heart but on your soul
What is better? My defender or your treaty that doesn’t treat me better
The colour of My skin? My eyes? My hair?
They are all bare, present in front of your eyes but the colour of my soul will be too much for you to behold
No man, human or even god can tell the colour of my soul
About the Creator
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The Duelist
The rays of a dying red sun flashed against the onrushing blade. The grey beards say the key to dueling lies in size, speed, reach, righteous fury, whatever the person in front of them pays them to say. Matteo knew better than any it was none of these and had an undefeated record on these sands to prove it.
By Matthew J. Fromm2 days ago in Fiction
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