Poetry

I like to dabble in poetry. Notice I said “dabble,” which means I’m not that great at it. Most of the poems I write end up as mysterious riddles or prophecies in my novels, but not all of them. Here are some of my favorites (by favorites I mean ones that are actually polished up).


The Path of the Pen

Why does this story call to me so?
Try as I might, my heart won’t let go.
The story is not so lustrously bright
As the tales spun by my mind at night,
But rather, this story is really quite plain,
With nothing about it to gain any fame.
So why do I cry for this story untold?
Why, in my heart, do I treat it as gold?
Its plea is so great, I don’t know anymore
Whether I should give in or if I should ignore.
And if I should choose the path of the pen,
What would the story become to me then?


The Artifacts

This poem appears at the beginning of my book Twelve. It describes the Twelve Artifacts, which play a major role in the story.

Twelve there are for man to wield:
Pow’r so great that all must yield.
Four Medallions, when together
Summon Fifth, the binding tether.
Sixth and Seventh are Knowledge forbidden:
Evil and Good are no longer hidden.
Eighth: a telling of certain grace:
A Mystery of a future face.
Ninth, the Time that guides the world;
Tenth, the Key to pow’r unfurled.
Eleventh, a Gate to worlds of the fay;
And Twelfth is This, to guide your way.

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