His Tomorrow Strikes
Beaten, bloody and strong
The shivers rock the world in undulation,
Listening intently for the heavy foot falls,
Thumping rhythmically through the ore buried deep,
Wizened by the whispers on the breeze as he calls.
🥷
Yesterday struck hard, smothering him in pain,
Beating him bloody and raw,
Until he crawled away in defeat and sorrow,
Hiding internally, determined to take no more.
🥷
For days he hindered within the shadows,
Soothing feathers ruffled in disarray,
When suddenly tomorrow strikes with a vengeance,
And he rises, strengthened and ready to play.
🥷
Ride the waves of regret with glory,
Because he’s now on the war path, chasing,
There’re those that need to wither within his blooming,
But as yet, they’ve no idea of what they’re facing.
🥷
When that sun rises upon his golden wane,
The war of remembrance will be upon us all,
He’ll ride in and destroy the very essence
Of those that darken the hearts of all that forestall.
🥷
He’ll be crowned by the blood of his enemies,
Showered in visceral gore of their blackened thought,
Speared deeply in emotions coated in disgust,
Drilled and strung on those he fought.
🥷
Screams batten the hatches of his hearing,
Eyes follow the birthing of his hidden smile,
He stands tall and surveys the ground upon which he stands,
Understanding he’ll need to wander awhile.
🥷
He rushes across the nemesis of his dreams,
Flashing steel, molten and sharp,
Distinguished in glory for all the world to witness,
As his strength is sung by a bard with his harp.
🥷
Don’t believe in the myths that follow his heels?
I would suggest you don’t voice that aloud,
Because I often hear him whisper under his breath,
“Those that refuse to bow, will be destroyed,” he vowed.
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
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Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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