oldmansfiles (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oldmansfiles) wrote2009-05-19 05:30 pm
oldmansfiles) wrote2009-05-19 05:30 pm
III: Lavinia of Copper, Black Rook
Remember my epic chess poem? Well, I finally go the next part done. XD Other parts are here as it's no doubt been forgotten.
They were the ones that stripped the trees
Curling leaves with heat until the liquid
Ran down into hard orangey shapes.
They are the house of Copper.
She is the third daughter.
They gave up wheels for spider legs.
When Lavinia rides she rides not for glory
Checking the pressure, adjusting the release
Scuttling with a machine under her feet.
The flags go up and her brothers smile.
Another set of Rook armaments to make.
They are the weaponiers, they are the crafters.
Lavinia draws her bow likes she lifts a hammer
Gold tempered with red, the sun and the blood
But a Rook is more smith than soldier.
Never a poet. With the helm drawn over her eyes
All she sees is the grid, the field is gone.
They follow corners like sheet metal.
The Rooks from the other side use beasts
While the House of Copper make their own
Which drink oil and breathe smoke and run
With grace far less hindered by inconveniences
Like hunger or ache of a muscle at its tenuous end.
They have pulsed their own heartbeats to the motor.
Triggered, the bows are drawn for ceremony.
The third daughter never fires without due recourse
From the Bishop with the Knights all ahead.
She holds her place at the fringes as she asesses
What to give the Pawns who survive the first wave.
They are the solution makers.
They were the ones that stripped the trees
Curling leaves with heat until the liquid
Ran down into hard orangey shapes.
They are the house of Copper.
She is the third daughter.
They gave up wheels for spider legs.
When Lavinia rides she rides not for glory
Checking the pressure, adjusting the release
Scuttling with a machine under her feet.
The flags go up and her brothers smile.
Another set of Rook armaments to make.
They are the weaponiers, they are the crafters.
Lavinia draws her bow likes she lifts a hammer
Gold tempered with red, the sun and the blood
But a Rook is more smith than soldier.
Never a poet. With the helm drawn over her eyes
All she sees is the grid, the field is gone.
They follow corners like sheet metal.
The Rooks from the other side use beasts
While the House of Copper make their own
Which drink oil and breathe smoke and run
With grace far less hindered by inconveniences
Like hunger or ache of a muscle at its tenuous end.
They have pulsed their own heartbeats to the motor.
Triggered, the bows are drawn for ceremony.
The third daughter never fires without due recourse
From the Bishop with the Knights all ahead.
She holds her place at the fringes as she asesses
What to give the Pawns who survive the first wave.
They are the solution makers.
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I like these poems.