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Ballad of a Ghost Lupe Warrior
I wear this mask to hide away
The shame that came with yesterday,
The shame of scars from battles past,
My life has halted, now, at last.
Now I walk with shame upon
My shoulders 'til the dusk is dawn;
But after night has journeyed through,
Guilt fills my mind, my thoughts askew.
And now I walk without the pain,
But with the scars and with the shame,
The scars from rivals, now all dead,
Which is why shame fills my head.
I am the ghost of a warrior brave,
My spirit walks and my body remains
Frenzied as the souls in the dead of night.
I gaze at the moon and whisper a lie.
"They will remember," I say with a tear.
I know they will not, which is just what I fear.
To be forgotten, a lost soul, nothing more,
This is the ballad of a Ghost Lupe Warrior.
A Faerie Rainbow
Fire faeries dance.
In the air they twist and twirl.
Their red lips glitter.
Light faeries flicker.
On golden wings they fly,
Hunting darkness down.
Earth faeries sing.
A glowing green light surrounds.
Hear their pretty voices.
Water faeries swim
For they have no wings to fly.
The water's their sky.
Air faeries speak words.
Their voices alone are gorgeous,
Their beauty better.
Dark faeries wait.
They won't come to celebrate,
Thinking evil thoughts.
It seems so safe to be,
Until you find the dark beast's lair
And feel determined to go inside and see.
Sneaking through the unknown cave,
Crouched low against the floor,
The water dripping, so eerily,
And then you find the thing no one's ever seen.
Out of the darkness plunges a beast,
Its eyes wild and full of rage,
Spit flying from its mouth,
Its wings flapping dangerously.
It's time to get out!
Run! Scream! Just get out of there alive!
Get back to safety; you need to survive.
The beast's hot on your heels!
You've made it angry,
Not a good place to be.
I wish I was in Neopia Central!
I wish I didn't want to come and see!
Finally, out alive,
And now you have gotten out of the cave,
And you have a great new story!
The Witch's Tower
In the woods and through the fog,
In the depths of a haunted lair
Resides a witch wearing a hat
That covers her green-tinted hair.
Led to by a pile of steps
That quarry hands had found,
A sign that read "Beware"
Was staked into the ground.
Items seen by few are present,
All rare, none of which are new.
Bottles containing all ingredients,
Including creatures that she once slew.
Hovered over a cauldron hot,
She mixes the items known,
Needing a few for now not then.
Unhappy, she waits alone.
The clock strikes twelve.
She sighs and paces the room,
Waiting for the item to come,
Though it was needed by noon.
A knock sounds at the door,
She runs to it with a grin.
"Be gone!" she yells in an angry tone.
To her being late is a sin.
The mixture will go unfinished,
For the helper was too late.
By now the potion has gone bad,
So she will wait until another date.
For she will find a way
To get back at those who are slow.
She contemplates a spell...
She has her ways, you know.
The Writers' White Weewoo
Tales of triumphs, tears, and toil,
He marks down with his dancing quill,
Eagerly awaiting the papers before him,
For work starts at sunrise, with the dawning day.
Reading through such words of thrill, feathers
Instantly stand on end, as white down against
The backdrop of the lazy lantern's glow, as
Even the day must draw to a close, like the
Renowned works of his favourite authors.
Silently, the night creeps upon him,
the stars reveal him,
Working ever diligently, feathers askew,
How the stars smile as the merry Petpet winks
from his industrious perch upon a stack
of freshly printed Times,
paper crisp and ink bright. He is
Ethereal at night-time by the moon's glow --
White as the clouds that obscure that mystical orb
Elusive in the sky, drifting quietly,
Even as this tiny wonder lays its head upon
Written works of adventures, a single
Old, worn quill grasped in claws, like a
Once-met, ne'er forgotten friend.
Total Poetry Pages : 1961
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