Poem: The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Hi All

Thought I'd give you a break from my rantings and give you a short poem written by someone with more skill than I.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Peace

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.-Robert Frost

My Work: Torment

Hi All.

Re-post of some of my older work, if you've been here before you may have read it, though its nice to look back now and then

--

“My story begins in darkness. And the story ends in darkness, and the middle?”

I sadly whispered into the night, it was a loving companion these days. But then hadn't it always been. Or was it me that had changed, so much was lost during that story. But what was gained?

For the first time in an age I felt weakness. The emptiness inside that one gets when all is lost. Something told me that my story wasn’t over, that a new page was being written even now. But how can a new chapter be written without them?

I stood from the cold marble throne I was sitting in. And again I looked around at the room. It had been beautiful once, a great hall of kings. The ruins were part of my story, not a great part. But this place reminded me of simpler times.

I walk slowly through the demented room. It seemed to have grown angry over the years. I see an archway a few steps in front of me. My eyes piercing the veil of darkness, and through the veil I saw runes scribed into the arch. I remember when I first laid my eyes upon these runes. Such a naïve fool I was back then. The distaste of remembering that time in my life left a bitter taste in the back of my throat.

And like fuel to the fire, the emptiness swelling, but a voice sounded from behind me, the voice was one that I knew. But my mind knew that wouldn’t be possible, the dead don’t speak.

“I have found you.”

--

So that is how our story begins, one twisted shell of a hero tormented by the past begins his second chapter so to speak.

But what happens next? Who is the dead man? Who is the hero? Well aren't you full of questions. Questions that will be answered all in due time. But for the moment know that this part of the story was used to bring these questions to the surface knowing full well that you weren't ready for the answers.

Ahh, where are my manners, I've yet to give introductions. I am a simple storyteller, I weave words together to spin a tale of the usual proportions. And as any good bard I have a reputation for embellishment, exaggeration, and most of all unnecessary bursts of song.

And you? Well as every reader knows all stories have a degree of truth to them. You are an interested party, someone looking for entertainment more than facts, and so I could relay the events to you as they happened, or I can add a touch of flavor to the events. And I am ever so good at the latter, some might say too good, although the people that do say that would say it well out of my earshot.

But my friend, this is the beginning, yet I appear to have began in the middle, and so I interrupt my own writing to offer a brief explanation, an explanation that will be unsatisfactory.

This story relays to you the myths of the past, but not of your world, earth, such a plain and simple name. But of a world of magic, a world of creatures of your myth. As the storytellers of your past once accidentally discovered my world, I stumbled across yours.

Now how did a bard end up in your world, that is best left for another story. And possibly another storyteller. But my dear reader I'm sure you need not know that this is page one of your journey with me. Follow me as I take you down the metaphorical rabbit hole into the wonderland that is my home.

--

Peace

Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time. -Thomas A. Edison 

My Work: Beggining of the End - Short continuation by me

Hi All

I wrote this as to continue my last post, its not as long and while I enjoyed writing it, I did feel that the concept in my head was better than how it ended up.

--
Hundreds of miles away, sat another dying man. High in the tallest tower of a grand palace.

The wrinkled old man sat on a balcony bathed in sunlight, staring out into the crystal blue ocean.  The clear sky made it difficult for his ageing eyes to separate where the still water met the cloudless sky. He knew that in contrast to this beauty, a storm was moving. Regret filled his thoughts as he realized, today would be the day.

“Ignorance is indeed bliss.” he muttered under his breath as he sipped his extravagant wine. Savoring the taste of it, he had always believed Asar would change the world, as usual he was right. It was with all his heart that this time he wished that he was wrong.

Draining the final mouthful of wine from his jewelled goblet and standing forcefully, he shuffled on unbalanced legs quickly into the tower and then he sat heavily in front of an ornate golden desk. Behind him a flag of red hung on the wall, emblazoned with the gold phoenix of Larne. He mused how his elderly mind still pretended his body was young, and how walking a few feet had fatigued him so.

He picked up a heavy tome. It looked ancient, the battered leather bindings seemed to be burdened with the weight of the world. Its title and author lost to the ravishings of time. He opened it and began researching. For while he suspected what was going to happen today, he needed to know how.

Some of the text was undecipherable, but determined to see it through, he translated as quick as he could, and hoped it would give him some peace of mind. Page after tedious page went by.

Ancient prophecy’s and lost magic’s were spoke of, he even translated myths of dragons. These pages did little to ease his burden. He was desperately searching, wrinkled hands flicked the parchment pages until he read of the coming apocalypse. While translation could be wrong he was certain it was not. He seemed to feel it in his very core. A dread that filled his darkest thoughts, was slowly growing.

His brow furrowed, and he translated with a haste. He knew that death was coming to take him today, he'd accepted this price long ago. He read of the calamity that happened long ago, he read of the enemy that roamed the land and with the omen of death following him. As he read he seemed to gain clarity, a smile grew on his old lips as he drew his final breath.

His last thoughts were not on regrets, and while he knew what was coming he would rest easy
--
Peace
No one is useless in this world who lightens the burden of it to anyone else.-Charles Dickens