-K.G. Bethlehem author of Astronomical
“Sir, I had better not go to Nephlin’s Sorrow,” cried a serious Dogsircore. “If I do embark on such a quest I will attempt to kill Prim myself even though he is the Deathstalker.”
“……and waste your life,” retorted a stern Razorblade.
“Then you will not go, it would be foolish,” replied Sharpstar. He then turned to face the rest of his company, “Razorblade and Colorcode will journey to Nephlin’s Sorrow while the rest of us will travel to find the Atlas People.”
“Are you sure we can fully trust the advice of this chief?” question Sunick Gurl. He could had been the one to help capture Mela.
“We really don’t have a choice,” remarked Dogsircore. “We don’t have any leads nor names of possible aggressors. Unless Indigo wakes up and gives us different information this is all we have to follow.”
Sunick nodded her head in agreement as Sharpstar walked closer to his companion.
“I believe him, his eyes stayed true when telling his story. Now let us get ready to depart.”
All the knights understood and were in agreement with the mission details presented by Sharpstar. Razorblade for a second was distracted while walking back to the rollorbot by the congregation of female muelves; about six of them swimming in crystal blue waters of Middle Lake. The lead elf was decorated in green dressing that covered her waist and a hazel tunic embracing her bosoms. The other five had beautiful clear faces of a tan color and engulfed the lead elf in a circle of submission. Their chants of ancient songs and summer slumbers overwhelmed the air. His mind began to wander, flowing through a dim tunnel of color-less water in a nightfall stream. The stars were foreign to him, a description of crazy and normalcy. A strangeness took over, he could smell the scent of mullberry flowers, the tangy fragrance that tickles his nose in the midday sun. A scent of sweetness took over, like sugar water merge in with oranges. Unbelievable! He twisted his eyes again and viewed the muelves dancing on top of the nightfall stream.
He realized that their dancing was an ageless activity that couldn’t be reconciled with normal thinking. He marveled at the gracefulness of their movements but was aloof at their display of pain. Their faces were smooth and pretty, no wrinkles but forever frowning in a look of disapproval. They appeared to be mind readers as well as dancers, cognitive of his presence and his time. The nightfall continued as the stars grew larger and the dance lingered quite a bit longer as well. All five were now dancing a few steps apart as their eyes focused strongly on Razorblade’s glaring. He was motionless, more than before, as if his eyes wouldn’t blink but craved the attention of the beautiful women. The air of darkness deceived his comfort as a sunrise now inhabited the timeless outline sketching of a ruined castle of gold and blood. He tried to speak, to shout something, anything to stop this madness, but regrettably his vision was now his reality.
None will survive the next age of being, the next era of motionless thoughts of elders and brave men. Razorblade’s heart felt low, sadness to this silent discovery. He stared with curiosity and anger, but how could he angry with such women. Women of unsullied beauty and soulful gladness that mistook their own selves for the children welfare was common now. Now he realized that man was doomed to a fault, a fault of greed and power that will destroy not only the land but in essence his spirit….
vibrating sound emerged; a humming of crickets filled the air so intensely that he covered his ears for peace. It was horrible, annoying noise, like long hours of listening to babies cry but it was a method to this happening. The sounds humming on awkward beats, dum, dum, dum, dum…… It repeated itself that his head was throbbing to the rhythm, an odd rhythm that sounded like a conversation between animals of invisible origins. Dum, dum, dum, dum,——dum, dum, dum—–dum,——dum, dum, dum, dum—–dum, dum, dum….. Many minutes of the same resonance he realized, it was a conversation as words came into focus like whispers in the crowd. (In translation) Alas the dark warriors, alas the coming of bravely, alas dark warriors, heed our prayers of savory… The cautious Razorblade was almost in a mid-summer trance by the zestful melody of the elves of Middle Lake until the clever Sunick Gurl patted him hard on his shoulder to rouse the warrior back to reality.
“Are you fit?” she asked with concern due to the empty, still expression Razorblade has exhibited for a spell.
Razorblade stared at Sunick Gurl for a brief second and answered back in a dazed manner.
“Did you see the female muelves?” exclaimed Razorblade with a question. “Did you see the dead world?!”
“Uh, Raz I didn’t see any muelves nor any change to our surroundings.”
“They are there, in the nightfall water.”
Sunick Gurl stared closely at Middle Lake where Razorblades’ eyes were focused, but did not see anything but moving water underneath the fresh breeze. She also was a little confused to his account of night as their position was underneath the midday sun. She decided she would forgo the latter statements and deal with the one she could easily answer.
“Na’im, there haven’t been any elves of any kind in this territory in many enos, ever since the death of the Ardoen Lord Sir Sinewyendor,” cried Sunick Gurl. “Most likely you have seen apparitions of long-ago gatherings of the Wind sung Muelves of Middle Lake.”
He then paused for a short moment as he understood Sunick Gurl’s reasoning over what he had just witnessed.
“Perhaps, well maybe…” Razorblade was interrupted by the voice of Sharpstar who was yelling to get the knights’ attention in the area of the rollorbot.
Good evening and welcome to the 90th edition of the Poetry Corner. Wow! Ten more to go before we hit the triple digits! What a journey eh?
Tonight we have this joint called “Nail Bar.” The blog where it is feature at his a collection of poetry from other poets; nice, creative poems I might add (forgive me but I could not find the poet’s name who actually wrote this piece. If you can please let me know). This feature poem here has a haunting theme with an old style pace to it. I am pretty sure you will enjoy it! So enjoy :-)
Originally posted on Ephemeris:
Crime queen Leonie paints and sculpts
in a shop that’s not; giving shellac shine
to shopping mall concourse passers-by.
Does my file and polish while a builder
in the next chair is stripped of brows;
we talk of books, Baldacci, Patterson,
being her kindle choice, post-pedicure.
Nearly time to close, burnishes me bloody,
dark as clots, while she yearns for home
and the escapist thrill of murders grisly.