Saturday, July 2, 2011

The City

Look, poetry!

Yes, this poem is old. I’m pretty sure I wrote this when I was fourteen. And yes, it has problems. Lots of problems. But at least I’m posting something. I’ll be sure to get something new up here next time. Enjoy!


The City

The city’s gate stands tall and proud,
Its empire vast and ruler great,
Strong to withstand the fiercest crowd
Unless should come a turn of fate.

The people who within it dwell
Are each one loyal, brave, and true.
The trees that grow there, tended well,
Succumb to early morning’s dew.

The city’s land is lush and green,
A fruitful haven for the eye
Where farmers plant and reapers glean
The treasures that within it lie.

Yet far beyond the city’s walls,
An enemy, though faint may be,
Whose sight revolts and stench appalls
Prepares to march across the sea.

At night they come, their banners high,
To storm the well-protected gate.
They soon will let their arrows fly;
This enemy has grown too great.

A single sentry stands his ground;
The arrow must not miss its mark.
The sentry falls without a sound
Into the stirring, thickening dark.

The army shouts a battle cry,
But as their shouting lifts a din
Into the ever-darkening sky,
Their cries are heard by one within.

He awakens his only child,
Saying, “Son, you must escape!”
But as he’s speaking, all the while
He knows he must defend the gate.

Just outside the city walls,
The child will rest beneath a tree
And listen as each soldier falls,
Though what they’ve done, he cannot see.

The armies fight and torches burn
And the walls fall from their pride.
They learn too late that tides aren’t turned
By arrogance or heads held high.

And when the enemy is done,
The walls reduced to smoldering heaps,
They’ll all cry out, “The victory’s won!”
As now upon them, morning creeps.

And somewhere in the waking light,
The child rests his fearful gaze
Upon the ruin of the night,
His innocence lost in the blaze.


P.S. I want anyone who’s concerned about my emotional well-being to know that this poem is not an expression of a dark, depressed inner self. And it wasn’t when I first wrote it, either. It’s just poetry. Don’t read into it; just read it. It’s usually better that way.

Besides, my inner self is quite happy, thank you very much!

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