Tag: fantasy

• SwornSlayer Bards: The Gilded Throne (Fantasy)

  (Ki – Beginning)
  “The room dripped with gold and shadow
  (chandeliers whispering in crystal tongues).
  He sat on the throne, spine a taut bow,
  fingers curling around the stem of a glass
  (as if he could shatter silence into song).

  Walls bore tapestries of conquered lands
  (the threads pulled tight with betrayal).
  Candles burned with a hesitant glow,
  their flames licking at the dark
  (as if tasting the air for ruin).”

  (Sho – Middle)
  “Velvet drapes held back the night
  (and the secrets woven into its folds).
  His eyes, sharp as the gilded trim of his coat,
  drifted over a banquet of empty chairs
  (each seat a ghost of something lost).

  His hand, adorned with heavy rings
  (symbols of bonds broken by blade),
  rested on the arm of his throne,
  knuckles pale beneath the gold
  (as if bracing for the weight of his own sins).

  A servant poured more wine, careful, silent
  (like a prayer slipping through clenched teeth).
  He nodded, a benevolent king
  (or perhaps just a predator sated for now),
  and the servant disappeared into the shadows.”

  (Ten – Twist)
  “He raised the glass to his lips,
  (savoring the amber burn of memory).
  Through the fractured reflection,
  he saw not a king, but a silhouette
  (dressed in the ash of forgotten fires).

  His smile curled, sharp and deliberate
  (as if sculpted by the same hands
  that etched daggers with lovers’ names).
  He sipped slowly, each drop a requiem,
  letting the wine paint his tongue with lies
  (because truth tasted like rust and iron).”

  (Ketsu – Conclusion)
  “The wine settled, a stillness in the glass
  (his grip loosened, metal against flesh).
  He sat amidst riches, yet felt the weight
  of all the empty spaces around him
  (as if the throne itself had fangs).

  Outside, the wind howled against stone
  (a dirge mistaken for the applause of the damned).
  He leaned back, crown slipping to one side,
  and laughed—a sound swallowed by the dark
  (as if even the shadows had grown tired of him).”

  February 20, 2025

  fantasy, free verse poem

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• SwornSlayer Bards: The Blooming Dirge (gothic fantasy)

  (Ki — The Tragedy Unfolds)
  She stood amid the cerulean requiem of wild bells,
  their trembling mouths whispering dirges to the wind
  (as if the earth itself keened for her loss).
  The pale hem of her gown pooled against the damp earth,
  its fabric sighing like the remnants of a forsaken vow —
  (a lament sewn from the dusk of unsaid goodbyes).

  The trees held their breath in reverence,
  their branches bent in solemn hush,
  or perhaps in mourning (or perhaps in guilt).
  Somewhere beyond the hush of the thicket,
  the river wept against its stones
  (but whether for her or because of her, it did not say).

  (Sho — The Weight of Memory)
  The air was thick with the cloying scent of rain,
  or was it the scent of something older —
  something that slumbered beneath the soil,
  (fingertips of the forgotten reaching through roots,
  brushing against her skin like whispered pleas)?
  Her breath shuddered, catching on the ribs of silence,
  as her fingers curled around the silver ring —
  a fragile thing, dull with sorrow,
  its once-lustrous band engraved with a name
  (she could no longer bear to speak).

  The past coiled around her wrist like ivy,
  tightening, constricting, refusing to let go.
  Even the sky, that vast and indifferent witness,
  had thickened with its gathering grief,
  the clouds curdled with the weight of all
  (the unshed tears she had long buried).

  (Ten — The Ghost Between Petals)
  The bluebells stirred though the air was still,
  bending not to the wind, but to something unseen —
  a presence (or perhaps a revenant of remembrance).
  A voice rose from the marrow of silence,
  a cadence she had known before,
  soft as twilight, sharp as longing,
  calling her by a name that felt like a wound.

  She turned, though she knew there would be no one,
  (yet something turned with her).
  The hush of the forest deepened,
  a pulse thrummed beneath the loam,
  as though the very ground bore a heartbeat —
  (one that had once mirrored her own).

  (Ketsu — The Threshold of Fate)
  A petal descended into her open palm,
  dusky and trembling, darkened by shadow.
  It withered at her touch, curling inward,
  as if recoiling from the living.
  She exhaled — an elegy in a single breath —
  and the trees leaned closer, listening.

  Was it the weight of the past pressing upon her spine,
  or the inevitability of what she had become?
  The river whispered its ceaseless lament,
  stones worn smooth by sorrow,
  (worn smooth like the bones of the lost).

  The bluebells bowed at her feet,
  not as flowers, but as mourners,
  their cerulean heads nodding in reverence
  (as if bidding farewell, or perhaps, welcoming her home).

  February 20, 2025

  fantasy, free verse poem, gothic

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