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Another writing challenge this month, and another poem has been written. It’s not my best, but my inspiration has been singularly focused.


A Warrior Survives Her Legend


The world turned from technicolor

To a strained black and white.

Swords swung and sliced

And clanged and clashed.


Blood sprayed her face.

The front of her armor.

Her fingers grew slick, but she dodged

And parried and cut through meat.


Bodies fell, the battle ending

As Winter chased down the stragglers.

One lingered, hitting hard and fast.

One who didn’t fall for her tricks.


Cold steel pierced iron with a screech.

Tip burns a line across her throat,

A scratch spreads poison,

Working to take her down.


She fought, bleary and discombobulated.

Throbbing spreads through her

Flesh, eating her vocal cords

Ready to take off her head.


Her speed failed, and a blow fell.

Winter dropped to her knees,

Writhing against her own death.

She would die here.


But death did not come.

Not quickly.

A battle moved away from her,

Leaving her to gargle her own blood.


Floating in nothing, she

Met her mother.

Woke to Newt pressing

A clean cloth to her wound.


His mother mended her wounds

After Newt saved her life,

And struggled with her own mortality:

A weakness for her kind.


The great warrior, Winter,

Taken down by a single sword’s swipe.

Surviving made her a legend.

No one knew the truth.