Unmaker – pt 15 – a poem


In lines of flame, ichor and blood are the final lines of this tale

Written, an end to the story, revolving for too long, kept alive

By forces nowhere near diabolical despite the savage results;

Priests, monks, itinerants, scholars and tribespeople, no background

Matters in this game without winners, the mitre disdained for the mace.


By slow degrees we find the broken pieces, pottery and parchment,

Torn down statue stumps and tiled floors with worn out patterns,

Every piece a part of the whole, threads in the tapestry of story left

Untold apart from by these parts disparate and separated from all

That gave them meaning, joined again in the void of our undying minds.


Had I or others but known a fragment of the fallen epic here interred

By fog and by force, I reason that none of us would have set our feet

Upon this tainted land, poisoned in every way, no matter what exotic tales

Have gone untold of this land left to its own ruin, yet here we stamp

Our tired feet, rest set aside for the eternal nonce and death our only reward.



Unmaker – pt 14 – a poem


Before the fire with bent knees and hunched frame, true despair

Rears a head made ugly, swollen for all the blood spilled duly

In chasing a purpose for which none of us prepared, circumstance

Pushing us all to the same places, warriors seeking demons

And all that they propagate, yet demonic means not evil always.


To bloody pulps barely recognisable are we reduced by trial,

The efforts expended disproportionate ranged beside the aim,

Overblown for such easy hubris, sins driven to punish ever

Onward all that might try to strive beneath these dank

Skies, heavy with dangerous rain, shadows shrouding the land.


With bowed neck, whole for the briefest of moments before

Ruination, sustenance has become strangely transmuted,

The pleasure of food, simple sips of water held fondly

As only forlorn memories these circling days, every death

A nail in the lid shutting out that light, too long shining.


For a sip, a mouthful to slake the thirst, we hold to that Fate

Who drew us here to the guttering fire, every gulp stolen

A rejuvenation of self, spirit and soul to perhaps something

Of our former glory, despite the shortening of health here about

Brought by death excessive evilly compounding possible survival.



Unmaker – pt 13 – a poem


Solitary wanderers, our paths at times will cross, lonely

Though our travels are, we stand against timelessness,

Roaming souls in transit sometimes meeting on the roads hard

Worn by bare feet, decrepit shoes, fallen weapons and

The dead words of lost rulers, heard by wanderers only.


Transient creatures, we are frozen as insects in amber

Moving within the treacle of cycles that encompass life,

Death, a curse unbroken like the ring of marriage, encircling

All that we know, this unholy circle that we seek to break

By bringing it to fullness, whether wished for by others or not.


Our purposes were waylaid, displaced and transplanted

By the drive that surrounds, leeches into the world of others,

Infected realms of crumbling elder lore with little meaning

For those who would read them are gone, or mad, and we

Stalk on, old lives lost and the mantle of new purpose embraced.


Unmaker – pt 12 – a poem


Under the unlawful aegis of mistaking birth for worth

Are many transgressions committed, although one

Only was needed to begin the roiling riot of deathless

Existence typified by that prison wherein rotted without

Ending those ruinous prisoners, bones bleached by water.


They herded them from all corners, before any of us

Here came over the grand distances, seeking a return

To those precious lives of ours lost, the poor folk

Suffering found no sufferance from their liege lords, king

Or queen, condemned to prisons and a hell sunken world.


Nor was that all of the injustice visited upon them, those

Legions of subjects once deemed as valuable society,

Although twere well if were all and no more besides!;

Nay, instead did spread the curse of depthless agony,

Loves and lives not lost but existing in torment eternally…


Unmaker pt 11 – a poem

Under the hooves of horses beneath demons, riders
Of spite and cruelty, the once innocent are crushed
Endlessly, industrial destruction let loose
By order of a former king’s writ, yet when failed
Another’s royal decree led to a sinking of the land…
Invaders that call upon those whose work
Has far more success met, they hold no pity,
Strange faces on their talismans to summon
Themselves to prey, easy or matched, all alike
In sustenance, all an option, no-one spared…
Long ago I implored the heavens to quiet the gods
Of storm and thunder, prayers whispered to placate
Visions of doom, the land swarmed, yet
The same came to pass in death across this far land…
And now my bell chimes for storms against my own kind.

Unmaker pt 10 – a poem interlude


A time to rest, snatched out from the realms

Where slow struggle stops, timeless interlude

At a fire for the soul, for us all to here

In repose rest, recover from travails dire,

Knights earlier drowning in death, now blades laid down.


Every step we take, each life we consume, cannibals

At play most foul for a purpose to finish, to end

All that stagnates, dries on The Wheel

To unrecognisable pulp, squashed souls

Vying for power, control, reavers without names…


Unmaker – pt 9 – a poem


As automatons we reach with every step
A tiny fragment of world power gained
By arm and by will, force and subtlety,
The minstrels who will tell our tales
As yet unborn, heroes of a dying kingdom.
There are no life and death matters these days,
The sighs of crestfallen warriors resounding
Along with fallen priests here forgotten
For sorceries of dark and light both
Which have their undying victims ensnared.
Pursued by pestilence, flame and steel
When making prisoners failed to help
Of the afflicted, accursed ones, suffering mortals;
Laid to waste, we limp on past lightly lapping
Waters which vainly wish for us all a fitter end.
After the aeons our hair lies lank, greasy,
Lank and matted with blood, dried by heat
From hearths that once lit homes bright,
Now barely showing a gleam on armour
And the poor devils that therein do wait…