This week’s Creative Friday gets magically creepy with this dark fantasy poem…
Down in the cave I mix the pot,
The rotting flesh makes my skin hot
Generations of men, through the years
In their death, come and stew here.
Here comes a warrior, in battle slain
His comrades take him here to be laid
With this spatula, I make a slot
So he can lie in this mortal pot.
With this blade I cut him up,
Blend him in the slurry and slup
May the mortal liquids break him down
So they can grow, here in the ground.
The messenger says “the resistance has come,
And we’re outnumbered, twenty to one”
When the tension rises, and the heat gets hot
It’s time to empty, the mortal pot.
Spin the ratchet, open the gates
Soon the slurry, from the pot will escape
And each compartment will get its fill
Then for the wizard to use his skill
In each compartment, I see the veins
Growing from the wizard’s pains
And on the veins, grows the bones
Flesh, organs and neurones,
Finally grows the mortal skin
At the wizards command, the egos fly in
And as they squirm from each compartment
Each new warrior grabs their armament.
From this cave, reinforcements fly
So that our race, will never die
And when they die, when their battles get hot
They will return to the mortal pot.
Artwork credit: sergey-lesiuk (deviantart)bookmark me