I wish I could forever be
Lost in my private reverie
A hero’s life is, meant for me
The likes of which you’ll never see
Marteen stood on the ramparts and gazed across the valley below the city walls. From here he could see the armies of the North and their encampments. There must be a million men, he thought to himself. Surely, tomorrow this city will fall and we will all fall with it.
How many must die?
How many must be maimed?
How many families will be ripped asunder and destroyed;
because of the ego of one?
Marteen was a pragmatic man.
He was not a romantic, or a poet, like his comrades.
His comrades looked out at the armies of the North and saw pageantry. They saw banners waving in the breeze. They saw grand war horses, tents and encampments. They saw the glory of war. Kings and generals loved romantics and poets. Poets were willing to die for a handful of flowers, or a smile from their queen. They saw the glory of war.
Marteen saw the darker side. Marteen saw destruction, death, rivers of blood, fire and ruin. Marteen saw horror.
A community for writers to learn, grow, and connect.
Becky Ross Michael: an author's blog
A Wife, My Verse, and Every Little Thing
Home-brewed Prose & Poetry
A Galaxy of Thoughts and Creativity
Read on, it's good for the brain.
cheeky, irreverent, quirky: stories, poems
Right time. Right place. Wrong hero.
Fabricated creations and other matter
Reinventing the Tagline One Existential Crisis at a Time
To participate in the Ragtag Daily Prompt, create a Pingback to your post, or copy and paste the link to your post into the comments. And while you’re there, why not check out some of the other posts too!
Poetry from a Dublin Scientist
"As we better understand the story, it is likely that its mystery does not decrease; rather it simply grows more beautiful" - Eudora A. Welty
Wrangling literary arts for writers: words for people!
A writing blog by H.R.R. Gorman
Emergency lighting for times of darkness and fear
A place filled with mostly unfinished stories. Begun primarily as a direct result of my association with the OC Writer's Guild
Short, sharp flash fiction
A way to exchange
Santa Cruz Veteran's Poetry Circle
Small Glimpses into Lives, based on heart warming attributes.
reading and writing the Rust Belt
poems and ruminations
It's named what it's named because it does what it does. And it does what it does because it's named what it's named!