Untitled Ploy

just a scribble

Gather round o'er great hill,
Past lives been lost, where blood will spill.
Take in hand, your dagger knave;
Through lives lost your path to pave.
Beyond the garden where our souls will find,
A place to call:  a place of mind.
This hope is gone lost to time,
Forgotten to a better rhyme.
We call no names, recall no faces,
When your life is lost to forgotten places.
Heed these calls, and mind this warning,
Or else Man may find--themselves mourning.

Author's Note

just a five minute scribble :3

Reviews

[Say]

I like the classic fantasy feeling this has. I see you've got some strong structure, and the rhythm is apparent, although not consistent. Are you planning to develop this more?