Wednesday, April 17, 2013


An Ode To Thee

Knight Brether, Samurai Brether, Righteous Wolver Beast, There 'Pon Roland

I dropped to my knees in exhaustion, the foe vanquished as yet another, 
though I tried reason first and afore long while before it bore nought. 
The blade sank deep 'tween flesh and earth though only flesh yielded. 
I thanked my ancestors for the victory and asked forgiveness of his, 
though they hissed at my words and spat in my face. I still put flowers 
'pon their plot, and learnt of them and their ways, and spread their good 
throughout the land, and still they spat. They've forgotten whence from they 
came bore to the land if only to experience its' pleasures and rape those 
who've nought the strength nor numbers to resist them'n their wiles.

My blade cleened as my doth soul through seeth avenger kempt. 
Honour thy Gods as thou doest those who oppose thee, though they art in 
differ, as their haerts lay within those who wield their affection, and 
that makes us all the like and wirth thyne protection. Lover, loved, the 
enemy, the merciful and merciless, blade and mortality. They meet upon the 
field and their honour revealed therein upon hidden from us but whisdom.

That is why the moon sings and the blade is curved for it seeks and nought 
follows and those who follow its path know that it is truu. 

Love is mortal as is life. Death is perfect though only if the life from 
which it is drawn hath yielded to the pleasures of love, life, mercy and 
dawn as they all seek completion as doth life.

Upon drawing my blade, I knew he was complete and felt glory for his completion.

He'd learnt the way of the warrior yet yielded to the way of the dissolute, and 
taught them of others this way so that afore nought long the enemies of that whole 
were plentiful and strong and in the shield of as thyne would know to be wrought 
of those who'd sought life and found unlife infolds.

My blade speaks for his pain as it does his fraughtful lyearning. None are frea as 
those who yearn for it and act 'pon their yearning. My way is of the perfect and 
nought the mortal as death is only perfect upon the righteous and upholding of the way. 
The waye is perilous as is the path of a tainted bullet fraught with the imperfections 
of it's creator, as it ist barrel, chamber  and cylinder all. For it shoots with your 
haert and only shoots when it is perfect, as doth the blade fall to thyne end.

Brian Joseph Johns

Copyright Brian Joseph Johns 2013
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