It was raining. It always seemed to be raining. The library’s court yard was lit by lanterns swinging in the wind. The light, although artificial, threw heavy shadows across the scene. Water dripped from the lanterns and pooled on the meticulous pebble paths and flower pots. A gasp of exclamation could be clearly heard from a distant alcove and a set of sturdy looking, wooden doors burst open.
A risque poem about the pleasures of man and the all too desirable things that reduce us to slaves. This was originally posted on my Medium.com account. While not very long I’ve tried to paint a suitable graphic image in the reader’s mind of both the appearance of the woman and her rather blunt motives.
Brother Thomas didn’t know much about the various planes of existence. He didn’t even know much about the world of man outside of the monastery. Inside these protective walls, however, was the complete opposite. Thomas knew exactly who he was. He was a true disciple of Chauntea; goddess of agriculture, he was a ‘versed farmer’.
A poem I wrote for my medium.com account. This piece showcases the agonising, yet gratifying demise of our gallant warrior; struck down as a;l warriors would be; weapon in hand, defending their beliefs.