(no subject)

[anathematically]

We're doing villanelles in creative writing.

And this is what I came up with.

Partially because I rarely write poetry, partially because I don't want to subject my shitty poetry upon people who have no desire to read it, it's under a cut.


At evening's wake, we drift to foreign lands
Earth and sky are scorched and bare;
At morning's break, the citadel stands.

With each breath we take, against God's demands
Forgotten deities, long lost of their share,
At evening's wake, we drift to foreign lands.

For here we make our host, our bands
Friendship forsaken, forged anew with care
And at morning's break, the citadel stands.

We make and break destiny in our hands
Always marching, always; our winds blow fair
At evening's wake, we drift to foreign lands.

Hours stand still to the day's demands
And still they move, march, an affront they dare.
Yet at morning's break, still the citadel stands.

To bear witness before we return to the sands
To remember and stare [[need to change that,definitely]]
At evening's wake we drift to foreign lands
And at morning's break, the citadel stands.