General Writing Poetry

Real

It was real. It was raw. It was outraged and formidable.
The shards of glass were once a mirror, clean, decorated in place.
Broken by the certainty, his eyes coated with doubts. 
The sly, decayed pasts changed its form and this unfortunate artist lived with the translucent cuffs in a struggle.
Like Vincent van gogh, he alienated with others. Miserable and down-hearted.
Only if Van Gogh knew letting it all go would lift the string of confinement within.
Within the inner turmoil, the summoned Dragon was the best call to the comrade of his who lived in a thick jangle with all types of weird creatures.
The red dragon puffed a cloud of gray smokes as lowered down and the fellow hunched up without hesitation.
Its wings linked up these two noble warriors. 
Calm and ready, they had towered the city and left off to the unknown. 
With appreciation the comrade had nothing to offer but an icy sword.
He slithered it from the scabbard. It was a castle-forged, splendid weapon indeed. 
It would cut through the blackened heart of a devil and one would soon learn to capture the essence of its characteristic.
When the moonlight ran down the shining steel, the edge of the blade would shimmer in blue.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *