Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

a'outrance say the french a beautiful way of putting "to the death" an ugly term explored by all poets at one time but has no real meaning as they have never fought unto such a thing.
Here my freinds is a tale of my fight although not unto the death came but centimeters from it although i knew he would not wish to go unto the abyss i would so push him but in the end i would win.

I stand upoun the hill
and then it is gone, i stand at its foot, a noose swings from the tree atop, who's shall it be
the ground shudders and graves from nowhere come, the mourners gather shouting for me, but i came here to bury another and yet as he does fall they call as though for me
so the noose does tighten around the necks of us both and i know i cannot blame another
so i fight the tightenning noose and try to win but no one can win against the noose of the soul and as i die his corpse swings and screams but only i can here as the ourners do not care and as it bleeds through its lips and the sinew and musscle of the dead man scream i die and shame replaces the honour and there is nothing more

but i must watch my back.

and so ends my tale