Private A Collection of the Poetry of Malum, of House Marr

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

Of the Dirt

Of one so high, brought so low,
From the darkened skies, to the darkest dirt,
Bringing forth saber in reply, trading wind for blow,
Striking naught and receiving advice, every action to reassert.

Grasping to lineage for strength, realising his own power,
Unleashing pure emotion, only to be struck down to the dirt,
Kept at arm's length, broken his ivory tower,
His eyes more ocean, as he attempted to disconcert.

Anger was his only course, pain his only claim,
A voice unknown spoke, demanding he rise from the dirt,
The solution presented was force, to set himself aflame,
To burn away the juvenile cloak, and to be in concert.

One last assault, defense to be futile,
An unproved ascent, to bring her to the dirt,
Of final calamity and fault, an attack to himself so brutal,
Would so break and cement, him as a convert.

Children of the Dirt
Darth Ophidia ​

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

The Darkness Beckons

Breath grows buried as the air fells fast, vision fading as the last light leaves,
Memories of prodigious past, made worthless as healthy hue heaves,
Paling into the consciousless passions, as one fills with fear of empty,
Gazing up at the white high heavens, heart cut filled with red plenty.

Gripping desperately upon the dirt, one perilous gasp,
Plate made mudwort, purpose gone with closing grasp,
The battle continues without its soldier, the grinding carnage having long forgotten,
There will be none to offer shoulder, as sides fill with dishearten.

The carrion fly far above, their darkness blocking his light,
Separated from his love, the dawning realisation of this his last night,
The difference between him and a corpse, fading as seconds agonisingly pass,
As all that is left is the tune of harps, marching with the sting of glass.

Victory proclaimed by the gallop of hooves, conquest gained by his lifesblood spilt,
Rising anger and rage at those who behooves, left him dying where they would be built,
The armoured chest grew still, a hopeless acceptance forcibly taken hold,
Survival surrendering lacking will, the darkness claimed the body cold.

Musings written after the Battle of the Palace of Silver Rain.
Terminal Condition
Alina Tremiru @Jaidha Yndrel Dyyr T'Pada Quintessa Venn Kolis
​

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

The Lost

I gaze into darkness, a void without fallow,
Swallowing full of tartness, needing it aglow,
The mirror shows myself, yet I cannot recognise him,
I see thyself, the basin is filled to brim.

The wind sails past, and we fall into the descent,
We see you so long passed, in mind ours without consent,
Get out please, let us break the chains,
Forcing upon our knees, you are doth hurricane.

Blood born eyes turned amber, mind led astray and deformed,
Thy inflict cruelty with hammer, its battlements stormed,
You grant us your ivory strength, but you have killed us and all I am,
To keep you at an arm's length, is to taste nought but damn.

Apologies constant for all we did, though only half of us accursed,
Thy a poison unable to forbid, refusing us to be divorced,
We gaze unto reflection of pools below, a shoulder tapped and my orbs follow,
I see her with tears overflow, and they are my eyes so hollow.

Dies Festus Mortourum
Sophia of House Marr Elise Ahana-Gwyneira Ansisa ​

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

Upon the Precipice

The horizon sings of distant candour, the drips of God's tears caress the cheek,
Your desire a waste for all to bore, a sensation to turn all a bleak,
A bright sun sky betrayed for all we swore, for by the end we were all so meek,
Undertaken this calamity you brought us to war, a storm so great we were too weak.

Light thunders in the distant sky, the end cometh as red deluge flows,
Our hopes and desire to make fly, as our will to go on froze,
Our loyalties were not ones to buy, but this is what we chose,
As rain falls upon my eye, and all that is left is the circle of crows.

The wind blows heavy with the heart tonight, the clouds made gluttons as they pour forth,
They pull upon strings to call us knight, when all it shall do is lay us on the earth,
The downpour is the soul underneath blight, there is none for us to mirth,
There is but one course to make bright, yet will it make us worth?

I sit upon the hill, as the finale plays,
My course to kill, accomplished in haze,
To commit act so vile, that shall set me ablaze,
The storm blows awhile, and summer gives way to winter's rays.

Musings before the Battle of Fiviune
The Serpent's Den
Darth Ophidia Darth Strosius ​