Drip, drip, drip
Something dropped from nowhere
Its sound fell with the heartbeat
I felt weak
I clutched firmly to the skeptre
Involuntarily
My hand flew to my forehead
I touched something wet
It smelt blood
The smell was overbearingly strong.
I began drifting to sleep
The action uncontrollable and with urgency
I could not tell time and position
"Where was I?"
"What happened?"
I was going fast
My energy concentrated on the skeptre
Soon I was oblivious of anything
I felt the skeptre drop to the ground
"What was I doing?"
In the distance the war cry sounded
Is life worthy fighting for
Here I am
The king to be
Lying in a pool of blood
The skeptre of power on the ground.
The Fantasy
By stbrians | Churning Poetry | 24 Dec 2022
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Churning Poetry
Poetry is the spice of the soul. A poet is an emotional person. He creates love, hate, worry etc. A poet is a mind reader. He knows your thoughts.
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