I have always loved reading mythologies and wondering, "what must have been going through the minds of those writing these epics?" My poem, "The War Not Known," is meant to explore just that. The greatest of all epics are written by those who are broken.
Imagine dwelling into a place unknown,
A castle assigned haunted,
A state called the "danger zone".
Imagine a flower whose scent is sheared,
Statue of a shilling,
A beast of pure knots revered.
Then imagine a hero fighting it all,
Inside and out, upside and down,
Bravely against all the vitriol.
Imagine a story of epic scale,
Blood and guts and bones on trails,
Fiery battlefields, greasy rails.
Imagine it all and more treachery,
More than knights could battle,
More than scholars could settle.
And imagine an end, cold and dark,
Crooked snakes being land sharks.
Imagine an apocalypse of tremendous extent,
Proportions so jaded, mendings braided.
All that and yet, still, imagine a calm hero.
One who faces it all with no sign of sorrow,
Little sighs he makes being called battles of tomorrow.
He's looking for a scrap to clean his blood
To rid him of grease and mud.
He was hoping not for ballads of halls,
But prayers of hearts.
He was not permitted to love,
He was not permitted his sword.
The battles of the cosmos were still fine,
It's the battle that he fought within,
That took his life.