The end drew nigh, and evil trod the land, In form of fleshless bones, with gaze of fire, With blood-red rats, that ranged at their command, And gnawed strong bricks to sand, to serve their ire. Who held against the horde was honoured high; One spoke not such a name, but sang of hope. For most, to meet the rats meant flee, or die, And few could run to match the bone-beasts' lope. In time, the most grew few and heroes died, Til evil's foes were bones, or made of bone. The sole survivors crossed the seas, and cried Despair on each dry continent of stone. By means most grim, they lived past evil's fall, Then fell in lands restored, on gallows tall.
By hand of righteous knight who roved the fen When far from home I strove to earn renown, My purpose unfulfilled, I was struck down. Within this tomb, I rest to rise again. Who would disturb my shade must dare my path: To learn in lands remote my natal speech, Assault the laws arcane until they breach; Earn, and endure, doom and aftermath. When I can act again, I take this oath: To serve one hundred years of solemn aid, And trustworthy — if trust I see repaid — And at the end, to leave unharmed us both. Who would with evil heart this offer claim I shall destroy. I've had enough of blame.
We've come to claim the crown of ancient kings, In chapel hid until the heir is born. We Undead have no need for crowns and rings; Bring out the gold, and peaceful we'll be gone. But should you stall until an army comes, Or should you try to say we have no claim, The pipes of death will sound; we'll beat the drums And towns destroy, and see you take the blame. If we are harmed, don't think you won't escape! Our plans are now in many ways afoot. When spirits dark own throne and ermine cape, Detractors in their places shall be put. What's that you say? The chapel's down the road? We shall reward the aid you've just bestowed.
Today’s Daily Prompt asked for poems about “LOST”.
I wrote this for the September Commuter Challenge, and kept meaning to post it and never getting around to it:
Beneath my hand, the dead will rise and walk. A thousand minions from a thousand graves. They'll neither fear, nor care, nor smile, nor talk. They'll only onwards march in endless waves. They'll pile and crash against the stony walls. Both cunning and device their strikes will lack. And when each weary bulwark finally falls, To mindless march they'll instantly go back. The living they'll ignore, but not avoid — Collide with them until they cannot stand. Of conscience their trampling is devoid. Their feet will smear the blood into the sand. And finally, when all is swept away, I'll rule an ocean empty, flat, and grey.