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"The Last Race"The Last Race
With blind anticipation,
They marched in formation,
As the crowd looked on.
They seem to walk for ages,
as they're led to tiny cages,
With doors that lead to nowhere at all.
And there, inside their cagings,
as the people count their blessings,
they snort, struggle, and paw.
Then out they dash before them,
in rejoiced emancipation,
as the children watch in awe.
The crowd call their numbers,
as the ground softley thunders.
The half mile has come and gone.
They waltz back and forth,
inching ever forward,
as one pulls out of the squall.
And the people stand and cheer,
as their warrior appears,
two strides in front of them all.
But, his feet did surely fail him,
as the ground beneath betrayed him,
and the warrior came crashing down.
And the hooves thundering behind him,
danced their way past him,
as the great race went on.
And the man that stood beside him,
kneeled down and cried then,
as his noble stead had fallen.
As the legends stand before him,
the sound of tears drown out
"On New Years Day"ON NEW YEARS DAY
A man wakes from his drunken slumber.
He sits up.
in protest to the night before.
He places the palm of his hand on his forehead.
The night before ....
... no recollection.
He glances over to the right side of the bed.
There lies a woman he does not recognize.
The sunlight peeking through the blinds etches rude slits across the butterfly tattoo on the small of her back.
He imagines the artist that scribbled the injustice there.
What a sad butterfly.
fighting back the urge to vomit.
placing his tired feet on the damp carpet,
then notices a bottle laying on its side.
Cheap vodka doesn't stain.
Throat anticipating overflow.
He steps slowly towards the door,
scuffing through pieces of discarded clothing.
Ten feet ....
He reaches the bathroom.
A small green shirt drapes over the bathtub.
It isn't his.
It's far too small.
Green is not his color.
He removes the article,
Vanguard, Chapter 1: DuncanDuncan's Journal: Day 1288
I consider myself a good man. I respect women, elders, my equals, and the dead. I say a morning prayer, and an evening one. Hell, I even thank the gods for a meal, instead of immediately chowing down in the voracious manner as the other soldiers here do. By all logical means, I should be in paradise. No really, not just because I'm a good man, but also because I should be dead by now. So I ask myself: why, oh gods up there, have I ended up in hell?
1288 days. 1288 days of my life have been spent in this misery, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the glory I was promised. Some of the rookies still live in their ignorant bliss, but I've lived long enough to realize that there's not much glory to find here. “Sing the songs of glory and march into battle—-join The Crusade today!”. Such were the words of the posters The Crusade has spread all over The Mortal Realm. Gullible fools practically stand in line for these songs of glory that th
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