Pawn After Dawn
A poem from the world of Ankor by a poet in awe of a people never meant to be.
There sat a pawn, upon the green hill.
A piece left behind its purpose unfulfilled.
A mechanical wonder, built for one job.
Lost to their masters, who are all gone.
There sat a pawn, pondering still.
Wondering if it's own thoughts are real.
And who gave it this ghost of a task?
If we spoke to stars then we could ask.
There sat a pawn, as the sun sank deep.
Thinking on memories, not meant to keep.
Their wonder wanders through their phantom brain
What could be the taste the smell of rain
Upon the green hill, there sat a pawn.
A wonder made by a race long gone.
Alive, but not by a creators design.
An accident of science and soul weave through time
About the Creator
Christopher Foster
Storyteller. Writer. Tales written of quiet mornings, and nightmares that dance between the outstretched arms of the sun. Currently building the world of Ankor, one story at a time.
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