Number... I lost count already?

No eyes... no mouth... no face...
Yet it mocks me, taunts me, to do my worst.
So why am I gripped by fear by the mere presence of this faceless monster?
It's not as if one mistake will forever be marked in stone.
But it's blank emotionless stare wears me down.

After an eternity of seconds I reach for my sword.
Mercilessly I swing full force at my foe.
I stand back for a moment to admire the damage I had dealt.
But just a moment, nothing more.

I dare not give the fear a foothold. So I twirl about in a mad dance. A blurry flurry of slashes, parries, and thrusts. Each time the blade finding its mark. With the enemy mortally wounded I finish him with one final stab.

Slowly I take in the marvel of my work. The madness of my movements seems to have had a greater plan. The slices in his flesh seem to form runes of strange design and his blood, black as ink, spells out the words of...

a poem.

1 comment:

Alice Lee said...

Man, I stooped to writing about writer's block for the 4th poem too. Yours is cool. It reminds me of WoW.