This is a poem to stop thinking about the Middle Ages so much (or doing so even more)
I'm currently working on a story which is set in the Middle Ages, so I'm researching a lot and consuming all the material I can for it. I've even dreamt about it! I will start publishing my story soon, one chapter at a time since it is quite long, but in the meantime, here's a poem. Hope you enjoy!
Times of old, times of bold
Of young by not living enough
Dying unexpectedly
Of the act before you think
Believe and don't question—
Hands and swords
Over minds and quills
Of the quick and the tough enduring
While withered did the frail
Times of old, times of gold
Weighting more than a head
But also less than a heart
Moving masses toward rocks
Towards cliffs
Colliding
Or crashing
Or burning
By immolating
Always miserably
Gold of dawns however
Gold of sunsets
Gold of actions and intentions
Hidden but nevertheless present
Gold in the gutter
Gutter in the gold
Times of old, times of soul
Of oppressive spirituality
Zealous control
Of the penitent dead
Trampling over land
Over dreams and hope
Over the not-so-dead
And the living too —
But soul still,
Ever resilient
Ever wondering
Soul hiding, waiting soul
Soul of seed
Prepared for spring
Times of old, times of cold
Of dying in the winter
Lone log-like lying
Commoners in a ditch
Feet and lung
Cough and chilblain —
But cold of sanctuary
Of shrine
Of hibernating knowledge
Of surviving the fires
The quiet alchemist
The cawing crow
The wandering witch
Fish frozen in a pond
The staid priest
Flowers waiting to bloom
While sleeps the bear
The awaken nun
Times of old, times of now
Of older and
Also of to-come
Times of wheels that break
Times of fangs
No longer biting tails
