Highlander Poems

"The Prize"

The heavans grow dark with the sound of the wind,
A gusty force that drives clouds from the west.
The sun becomes hidden, it's face grows dim.
The sky has grown black with the rain that's within.
This storm is not natural, it comes from no place,
The thunder that crackles and roars has no face.
The lightning and fire mix circles from the sin.
There lays below the madness a figure with no name,
He is dead and undead, reborn from the flame.
A man who drew blood with a blade tipped with rage.
The victor is chosen, the opponent lay dead,
Blood lay between the body and head.
The storm takes its hold, takes its prize.
The victor holds only pain in his eyes.
"There can be only one," the man has cried out.
He hears no reply, only his misguided shout.
The prize he has longed for, the voice from the past,
Has driven him for so long, and at last it is gone.
Whispers of thunder, and cinders from fire his only friend.
Deeply and darkly, he had awaited this day,
But now he believes that it had been all in vain.

More Immortal Jazz

Dear me,
It's a Quickening,
What else,
With that lightening?
A head,
Must have fallen,
With the stroke,
Of a sword.

We always Watch,
and never interfere,
in pouring rain,
or blustering heat,
through all the year.

No words we speak,
or secret be told,
though they stay young,
and we grow old.

Our tattoos stay hidden,
and our Watching discrete,
we know their lives,
but we never meet.

Their trails we take,
in patience we follow,
through love,
and war,
and all their sorrow.

Through all the victories,
we might cheer,
but in their death,
we ne'er shed a tear.

After death,
and rebirth,
when heads may fall,
and Quickenings occur,
we're always Watching,
Watchers we are.

Kind of Magic

It's a kind of magic,
Of that I'm pretty sure,
A single kind of magic,
One that is pure.

White as the snow,
Clear as a stream,
Never truly ending,
Kind of like a dream.

Those dreams you awake from,
But never truly disappear,
Those that you love,
Not ones that you fear.

This is a kind of magic,
A dream that is real,
A power that is held,
That no one can steal.

It's born in the blood,
Of the richest blue,
No part of royalty,
But so much more true.

A kind of magic,
So the lives always live,
And wounds always heal,
A gift no mortal can give.

Hard as a rock,
Tougher to wreck,
Unless a blade,
Goes through the neck.

It's a kind of magic,
The strongest and true,
For life everlasting,
With the blood of blue.

A symbol,
A fountain,
An everlasting flame,
Hope springs eternal,
No two are the same.

More Highlander Poems

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