I’m not a poet, but…

This popped into my head the other day (thanks to Brian for the advice). I thought I’d share. I’m nice like that… unless you hate it, then you might think me mean.


Necromancer’s Captive: Bound.

Dead fingers walk the skin of my thigh,

Necrotic flesh a horror to my eye.

Do I brush it away?

Send it tumbling to the ground?

Or simply allow its pawing

Fear keeping me bound.

A ragged, empty breath attempts to leave my lungs

The hand twitching, digging; thigh numb.

What magic is this, giving appendage life?

A hand without an arm

Severed by a knife.

Looking to my belt I see iron

Dull and patchy red

The hand I cut free of my enemy’s will

Still clinging to my leg.

A shudder…

Attempted gasp

Nails revealed dried blood

I need leave here

Chains bind my other hand…

Would that I could

For a time I watched

Skin peeled from leg

And then it struck me

My own stump

Brought to my head.

It is I who is dead.

It is I who is dead.



If anyone is artsy and inspired to draw/paint something from this, I’d love to see and share it. Hint hint…

3 thoughts on “I’m not a poet, but…

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