The Deathsinger: A Poetry Blog

The Full Circle

I took a stroll with Death today,

Down a cobbled road of gravestones.

The skies were overcast, the air was cool,

And time shifted like grains of steel.

 
His eyes were ablaze with freezing embers,

Hands like the roughest Arabian silk.

Sharp suit tailored so chaotically,

Death had such lively taste.
 

We discussed my short life at great length,

And why I had done mu deed.

“Suicide at 18? Why dear boy?”

He asked with apathetic caring.
 

“I’m not sure, Mr. Death, sir,”

I answered with vague absoluteness,

“But I know that I want a new beginning.”

He stared with perplexed understanding.
 

Death procured a silver pocket watch,

With the hue of golden dandelions.

“It would seem someone’s a tad early,”

He said as embers glanced over ticking.
 

“We’ll have this chat another day, farewell!”

And before I could protest and plead,

My eyes flashed open amongst the company,

Of old friends: silence and solitude.
 

The sterile and empty hospital cell,

Seemed to choke me more than my full circle.

“Another day,” I think with forlorn eyes,

And awake to my nightmares once again.

The Nordic Requiem

Ancient bones and Nordic steels, 

Rabadon’s Deathcap and four Zeals.

Flying axes and walls of pain,

Ults resulting in, “You have been slain!”
 

The raging berserker and the undead lich,

Farming up minions to become so rich.

Lords of the jungle and the mid lane,

Dropping DOTs on team fights like deadly rain.

Spells and skills of terrifying proportion,

Green health bars full of crimson distortion.

Even when surrounded by enemies galore,

A valiant last stand they’ll have in store.
 

Double, triple, quadra, and pentakill,

Nothing this unlikely duo cannot fulfill.

From this power, nothing can stave,

And if so, Requiem will strike from the grave.

They’ll trap you on fountain with nowhere to walk,

Because when you fight them, you’re in for a Ragnarok.

Piercing Eyes

Piercing eyes of sorrow 

Pervade and enter me 

Saddening my being 

And weighing my heart 

Brown expressive eyes 

Flow into my soul 

Such kind eyes 

Such a beautiful face

Should not be sorrowful

Should not be enraged 

Oh purest girl 

Please do not be sad

Not only are you sad

For you’re pulling

My delicate heart strings

With your piercing

Eyes of sorrow

Wings Aflame

Immortal gold, majestic and brightly shining,

Unassuming, powerful, and age-defining.

Arising and living of enduring fire,

Born from the ashes of oppression so dire.

Symbol of new hope perched on her quivering chest,

Survival of sanity, her ultimate test.

But will those young wings aflame set the people free?

Or condemn despairing necks to the hanging tree?

Tender Heart

Small, fragile figure

Robed in deep black

Only brown eyes

Shimmer from her

A thief in the night

Here to steal from me

She approaches 

With calm apprehension

I step back and 

Refuse to yield 

Staring into my soul

With those beautiful eyes

One tranquil look 

And I am swayed

I reach deep within me

And surrender it 

My most precious belonging:

My heart 

She runs off into

The deep black night

She stole my heart 

And I’m fine with that

All I hope for is 

That she is gentle

With my young

Tender heart

Oh Moon!

I gaze upon the long black skies,

To glimpse that serene Moon,

But tonight, tears of anger it cries,

Hate and malice approach me soon.
 

My dearest quiet light,

So easily you make me swoon.

What was once luminous bright,

Now a signal of doom.
 

Desperately, I reach for you,

Even if some call me a loon,

It seems no matter what I do,

I cannot reach you, oh Moon!
 

So close, yet so far,

Dimensions inopportune,

Forever my distant star,

My dear precious Moon.

The Pale Canvas

Before my unkempt bed sits, 

My canvas of virgin pure.

Pale and angel white,

Impatiently waiting to be fulfilled.

My wooden brush and paint approach,

With passionate innate intent.
 

My bristled head dips deep in paint,

And touches precious canvas skin.

Gentle strokes trace along,

To form most graceful curves.

Practiced hands hold that delicate frame,

Pinned on the wooden stand.

Colorful strikes grow with vigor,

Stabbing in and out of crimson red.

Heavy breaths escape my desperate lips,

Mind and body racing with ecstasy.

My soaking brush slides swiftly,

Penetrating untouched purity,

With hues of deep emotion.

Death of pale innocence.
 

And in climatic motion so lithe,

And canvas moist with truest expression,

Bristled head jabs once more,

Leaving a final stroke of white.

My parting gift of last,

My parting gift of life.

Now defiled into reborn beauty,

Now transformed to colorful passage.
 

A sweet young lotus on a calm lake sways,

As it mourns the loss of a lone petal.

It sinks below and melds in darkness,

Forever lost and forever remembered.

Eclipse

Darkness slowly creeps upon my feet,

Born of Star’s hidden deceit.

Naive Moon pulled into orbital plan,

By great chimera’s looming wingspan.
 

Left in pitch, cold as a lich,

As eyes grow rich, light’s a bitch.

You look so happy by her side,

Moon’s true beauty denied.
 

Can you not even see,

What this is doing to me?

Your eclipse of twisted sorts,

Chains me to fiery courts.
 

Judged by condescending light,

Do you even put up a fight,

My mysterious Moon?

Or will you forget me just as soon? 

Lady Macbeth

Love is patient, love is blind,

Clouding my judgement and heart.

My poor undguarded mind,

Struck by a poisoned dart.

Seeping over like a sly oil,

Wrapping and clasping my soul.

Setting my blood and eyes to boil,

Stomach thrown into roll.
 

To thine own self be true,

A virtue of which I lived,

But against that overbearing hue,

My identity forfeit, I give’d.

Servant I became all too well,

Attentive and helpful to thee.

Willing to rescue from the fires of hell,

All to keep love safe, no matter of me.
 

Devotion devishly devised my demise,

Irony writing the pages.

No respite, break, or compromise,

No epic struggle of the ages.

Merely a story of my weakness,

And the divine powers of control.

Caught up in the illusion of sweetness,

All-consuming as a black-hole.
 

Is this what you want, my heart’s final breath?

You manipulative demon, you Lady Macbeth.

The White Page

A graceful line 

Drawn on white 

By her small, lovely hand 

So strong, so precise 

Yet soft, and beautiful 

She shades in 

Utter silence 

She sketches with 

Serene concentration 

Her eyes glow 

With deep expression 

As she reveals it 

On the white page