Tenebrous branches of ebony
onerous and bleak,
reach out
like roots of an ancient tree,
claws of ink
spilling, flowing, pouring
engulfing me,
weighing down my body
reclaimed by the earth.
Betrayed by a shadow,
friend, ally, comrade,
his umbra makes a shelter for your flag.
An extension of yourself
sharing your soil, like a great oak
beware though for,
his shadow weighs heavier
than yours, bearing
you down through the grit.
Foe, villain, the spy in your camp,
his roots taking your water
and his leaves breathing your air,
his canopy stretches far
the Great Oak stands alone, unrivalled.
About the Creator
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Once More Unto The Breach
He let the sword slip through his other gauntleted hand. Athlistan stood atop the crest of the rubble of Bordanium’s ruptured curtain wall. Beyond, the remnants of the Saxon’s first assault regrouped. They would come again–Athlistan knew it.
By Matthew Fromma day ago in Fiction
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