A Poem: The Outcast

My rituals are misunderstood.
Harmony and peace are my brotherhood

I am an outcast
Lowest of the low;
Excluded from the lowest caste

My meditation is loud
Signals caught from miles around

My rituals are misunderstood
Harmony and peace are my brotherhood

The powers that be
With their infinite energy

Bestowed upon us
Many gifts of plenty

To be extinguished
Will be a travesty

Under the hypocritical boot
Of society

eric

Just Another Day

A Poem: The Road Often Traveled

“My heart’s rhythm searches for consistency.”

A Poem: The Road Often Traveled

My soul is tired; my bones, weary. My heart’s rhythm searches for consistency. My breath is shallower than the morning dew. My thoughts flutter about with great insignificance; accompanied by a brief, agonizing existence.

eric

A Short Story: The Battlefield

“Sweat pours down my face; a stream of boiling lava scorching my skin.”

The Battlefield

“Welcome back. Didn’t expect to see you so soon,” the horned-one growled with distaste; exposing long, battered fangs.

The stench of rotting souls fills the air. The sound of otherworldly shrieks and ever so violent fluttering of flesh-covered wings is deafening. Hooves stumbling over stones and shattered bones create a low, thunderous rumble. Sharp claws scratching in failed attempts at stable footing are akin to nails on chalkboard.

It appears my presence has caused some “uncomfortableness;” I thought.

As the creature eluded, this “space” was not foreign to me. Not long ago a great war was fought on this very soil. The indigenous suffered defeat. Forever lost numbers never before seen.

The tension was understandable.

Sweat pours down my face; a stream of boiling lava scorching my skin. I close my eyes; slightly tilting my head back.

As I stand there; soaking up the energy from a familiar battleground; fond memories of yore are interrupted.

“What brings you back?” timid lips muttered.

I open my eyes. I bring my head back forward and down; just past center. I reach for the gnarled, battle worn grip of my sword.

My Spirit; my Energy; conveys an all too often and clear message.

“I’m not done yet.”

eric

Never Surrender