Shimmering. Golden.


    The sword sings to me


    like a cool prairie


    with yellow grass that wraps around my knees


    and wind that blesses my black hair,


    swaying ever softly


    and ever slowly


    amidst the field.


    My hand grips the sword before I know it.


    Through violence I will get peace.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    I am done waiting for it, I say


    as blood splatters the blade,


    a sheet of red replacing its shine.


    But time is my friend.


    I know not my enemies,


    but to the prairie, I head


    with each step past the dead,


    ignoring the crimson floor,


    the violent red on my hands,


    and a tiny voice in my head


    that says my choice leads to the wrong door.


    I am my own savior.


    I never needed her.


    The fire within me burns harder,


    yet on the inside I wither.


    My coals are cooling,


    I am becoming weaker.


    I slip a mask on,


    hiding my cracking skin,


    my heart and toothy grin,


    even as the arrows,


    darting through the dull air,


    pierce my stone lair


    and lead me astray.


    Had there been a day where the sun looked so good?


    The golden yellow blessing my view,


    but the sword leaves my hand


    just like how she left me.


    The prairie is still here,


    but now I won’t be.


    Is this how I will leave it, I ask


    as the grass receives


    my collapsing body.


    The tasks left undone,


    chopping wood for the hearth


    and sharpening myself first,


    torment me.


    I should have left the sword sooner,


    I realized as it became


    too late for me.