The Stan unrhymed

 The morning sun chases night away, the valley framed in red. The mountains bow before the sky, their heads are crowned in shadow. Their wisdom withheld from parched lands, their tears of flowing waters.

The band of brothers, their father’s pride, await the chieftains judgment.  He ponders, waits and gnashes teeth, his eyes the storm of winter.

The fields of brown awash in white, the poppy’s kingdom is christened. It’s power stretches across the lands to shores of great blue waters.

Around a smoldering fire of blue, the bearded men are watching. Their simple life of song and game, gives them strength and power. Their enemies fly on dragons green, spitting fire and copper.

The pawns of white make their play, across a board of glass. They fall before the knights of black whose masters married gold.

The queen of white takes to the field, her dance rings out in fury. Her icy gaze unravels men, her spear of fire, and a scythe to wheat.

The curtain closes upon the scene, a play that’s been encored. Since Alexander’s horse strode tall, this valley has been weighed.

The raging storm has come and passed, the board resets on neighbors loam. It’s beast of steel awake in anger, it’s jeweled hand points to the north.

The sun is awakes, the valley bright, the birds sing tales to flowers. The mountains tears wash through the land, a mothers strength is tested.

In fields of green beyond the sky, 2 boys play games with paper. In the east, one father cries, the other across blue waters.

Since stone was thrown in eons past, man has played with fire. His love for strife and sport unquenched, until his eyes retire. His lust for gold never tamed, his dreams of conquer and eminence.


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