Bear with me: This was meant to be a poem but turned into a short story/poem
THE GLAIVE
As pain sears through my side,
Blood trickles through the crevices of the bronze armour
Red drops on to the battlefield
Where bodies of ally and foe lie
From the dirt, to the dirt...so they say
The steel forged glaive in my right hand grins back at me
Her teeth blood-red
Even so with an unrelenting thirst
She craves for more...perhaps I do too
As I grip the blessed wood the pain disappears
The death infested land goes with it
The glaive swings forward and my arm follows
Her metal blade knocks the head armour off a poor soul's head
Shear force breaks his neck
Another one for mother earth
Midswing. I see two attackers
Without thought, and as Brokeneck falls to his knees
She swings back, the pole still holding on to my sword-hand
At times like this she took over me
Possessed me, she did
A blessed glaive, she was
With countless casualties to her name
The sacred blade pierces through the first's armour dissecting his upper chest
Another one to the count
The other lunges toward me two daggers equipped
Planting the pole in the ground I dodge the attack by a whisker
His daggers scrape the surfaces of the bronze on me
As I land he is already on the second attack
He is fast!
But so is she
Gripping the glaive double-handedly I shift my weight forward
Thrusting the slightly curved blade in for the kill
He flies over the long weapon with ease
He is adept!
...TO BE CONTINUED...
YOU ARE READING
Glaive To Glory (A Poem)
PoetryWeapon of war. The Deathbringer. The Glaive has delivered death to at least a thousand warriors, and yet she still stands as though she absorbed their souls sustaining her ever glorious condition.
