Poetry in Narrative.

Tin Man.

Tin Man.

Handed over a furbished sword.

Tightened the belt, brought the horde.

Choose a landing, a place to start,

cleaved out the weak, rip out their hearts.

Use divination, whatever it takes.

Slaughter them all, pillage the lakes.

Net all the fish, draw them on in,

swing that furbished sword of sin.

Remove the diadem, smash the crown,

trample them all under the ground.

Weed out the weak, turn over the stone

leave them stranded, afraid and alone.

Present the mighty, the proud, the few.

Bring them all forward, let them choose.

A pen for writing, lets hear those words,

or brandish the furnish of things unheard.

Bring down the rain, let it fall red.

Standing tall are those that walk dead.

Then over the hills a blinding came.

A fire of fires daubing the rain.

Back to the beginning, one grain at a time.

The hourglass unfolds what's yours and mine.

A job well done, the creation concedes,

then hands back away what it doesn't need.

Gone, not forgotten, the damage is done.

Flames char the remnants that fled to run.

How fast, to far, where will they go?

When mountains fail, shattering bone.

Change is offered as winds cry and wail,

brushing landscapes, then bringing hail.

A maker, a taker, a sentence reborn.

The witnessed missed it, but sounded the horn.

Who was it? Who knew? It has been before.

A washing, the tossing and nothing more.

Gullies dried up, only valleys remain.

And a furbished sword that brought the rain.

A.o.R.