Last week my Mom found an old rhyming dictionary at a garage sale and gave it to me, and I've been going nuts with poems ever since then. This was one of the results. Enjoy! I based the rhythm after Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven" (best poem ever).
The Mask and the Child
I can tell a tale so chilling,
oh so horrid, oh
so thrilling,
of betrayal and blood spilling
on a bronze and
concrete floor.
When I tell you, please take warning;
In this
tale, there's no morning
amidst the weeping and the mourning,
only
night forevermore.
Come, let us start...
It all began
with a toymaker,
aome ambition, a masked taker
who gently
guiles the toymaker
into hoping more and more
that life could
be much better
so with a single letter,
He became the
go-getter
of the man who loved a war.
It was a work of art.
The scientist built up a machine
unlike the world had
ever seen
and stepped right in between
the growing gap of rich
and poor,
but while things were getting wild
and the crowds
were getting riled
the man tended his brainchild
and loved it
like nothing before.
The B.R.A.I.N went to his heart.
Every
day the B.R.A.I.N grew strong
amidst the protests of the
throng.
Things seemed to move along
at a pretty decent
score.
But one thing the man forgot
was, in a way, he should
have taught
B.R.A.I.N right from wrong, but he did not,
A
mistake he later bore.
One night things fell apart.
On
that simple midnight dreary,
as he worked on, weak and
weary,
there was a knocking, and quite blearily,
he foolishly
opened the door.
There four soldiers came through charging,
ever
moving, ever barging,
and the soldiers loomed, enlarging
over a
terror they'd ignore.
They would take the B.R.A.I.N and depart.
The man realized he'd been betrayed
and saw the
Chancellor's masquerade
so, with a simple kitchen blade,
charged
forward with a roar.
With a single blow he was downed
And his
head cracked against the ground
with cries of "Daddy!"
echoing 'round
As they dragged B.R.A.I.N out the door.
No words can describe a broken heart.
When he woke, he thought
"It stands to reason
that since war is out of season
that
this man is commiting treason
and will drag us into war.
He has
stolen away my child
and my trust he has defiled,
so will I be
reconsiled
with this man I now abhor?"
"No!" Cried the icy heart.
So began a phase of planning
of the
mask's demise, spanning
forty five days of planning
and a vow,
"He'll draw breath no more."
Nine little ones
created;
among them, his soul dispated,
each design more
complicated
then the little doll before.
This time the man was smart.
He gifted them with right and wrong
and prayed
they'd get along
for they were his swan song.
Never again'd
he'd hear "Encore!"
As they walked into the
battlefield
he watched them go, and then he kneeled.
One final
prayer, his fate was sealed.
"The world someday they will
restore,
but me, I walk the path to hell."
With a
start the Chancellor woke
and a voice from the bedside spoke.
"It
only took a stroke
for the guards by the door,
just as they did
to me that night
when your filth all came to light;
now you
stand accused tonight,
as shameful as a whore."
The Chancellor jumped up with a yell,
But before he could lash
out
The toymaker leapt up with a shout
and slashed wildly
about,
painting the walls with deep red gore.
The Chancellor
cried out to his nation;
his voice showed pure desperation
as
his soul sought liberation
when his body hit the floor.
The scientist coldly wished him farewell.
There was the sudden
sound of footfalls
and of bullets hitting the walls
and the man
with the nine ragdolls
fell silent forevermore.
As the
explosioned gently rebound
and died against the walls around
there
was only the tiny sould
of a machine shocked to the
core.
"Daddy?"
They say that if you ever step
into
that dreary sleeping room, you
can see thing's from it's
pount of view
as his creater's blood begins to pour
out onto
the concrete tile,
for you won't stay for a while,
as you see
the sight so vile,
the tale that should've been lost in lore.
Now go away, for all is well.