The Paliform Precipice Part I

[ellajam]

Hi, Blake, welcome. Thanks for starting with jumping in with feedback on other people's poems.

Even though I love a good story, I keep getting only half through here. The two issues I have off the bat are:

You've got a lot of yoda speak going on, I know, I've done it. You can read here for some examples:
Yoda Speak

The other problem is I think the 9 syllable count is tying your hands. I am a counter myself and love to hang a poem on the skeleton that it can provide, but I think you are sticking to it at the expense of meter. In what I think of as a saga poem, the meter can pull me through it, and yours is not working in many spots.

You can make something of this, but I think you need to work on those aspects first.

I'm going to keep working at getting through it, just wanted to let you know the problems I'm having as a reader.

Again, Welcome.

Here we are, I am prepared for the worst. This is one in a long series of tales I am writing centered on the same characters. This has already been rewritten once last year to adhere to the 9 syllable rule I made for myself, so as a result some rhymes may seem forced. I have 7 and a half more of these...
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Embarked on a quest, Sorg travels long
In search of a man of great evil
Murder, pillage; doer of things wrong
Hide he cannot from deeds most awful.

Joethryn, the self-proclaimed Bandit King
Is said to be among the badlands.
Sorg seeks to deliver death’s cold sting
Swiftly executed by his hands.

Sorg’s travels led him to a dry place
Of arid desert and massive buttes.
The earth was barren, cracked at the base,
Unable to sustain any fruits.

The cliffs that fill this forsaken land
Were unique in form and in structure.
Steep and vertical, these mountains spanned
Throughout the land devoid of moisture.

Like towers generously scattered,
Each resembling a colossal stake;
Columns of stone; the ground was tattered.
The land was wretched, make no mistake.

One tower sits high above its peers
Such that the sky, it graces a kiss.
It’s rumored to be hollowed in tiers,
Tis called The Paliform Precipice.

Reaching the colossal obelisk,
He enters the cavernous crevice
Into a vestibule, wise to the risk;
The room is empty, he does notice.

Ever wary he reaches a well;
Parched from the trek he filled his canteen.
Thirst now quenched he approached a stairwell
Ascending further as he was keen.

A round hallway with many a cell
Filled with prisoners; man, woman, child.
Seemingly left to forever dwell,
Their freedom has been wrongly defiled.

Sorg knew that the people would perish
If left all alone to the desert.
While leaving them may seem nightmarish
The prisoners largely were inert.

“I shan’t leave you to the hot desert,
You have my word I’ll return for thee,”
Spake Sorg with compassion for the hurt.
Sorrowful, he climbs up to tier three.

This was a travesty Sorg was sure;
He proceeds to ascend the tower.
Engaging a foe with rage most pure,
Sorg runs him through with mighty power.

Rending all those who stand in his way
He tears them to pieces, limb by limb.
Dismembering all who join the fray,
Leaving some to bleed as things go dim.

Feuding in a frenzy of swordplay,
Hacking his enemies asunder;
Their bodies present a grim display
Until Sorg realizes his blunder.

“Death and bloodshed; is this my recourse?
Evil they are, but must I follow?”
Ponders Sorg, being filled with remorse.
Sheathing his sword he succumbs to his foe.

Shackled and taken to the spire’s peak;
Thrown to the feet of Joethryn the king.
“Things for you do appear rather bleak,”
Joethryn uttered, leisurely pacing.

“You slaughtered my men on a mere spree
Yet you surrender here, at my feet?
Clearly my men were no match for thee,
So why are you here? Why do we meet?”

Sorg lifts his head, eyes meeting Joethryn’s
And said “many men have died this day,
You too shall be punished for your sins.
Release the slaves or you I shall slay.”

Quite taken aback, Joethryn replies
“You've done all this for many a slave?
Surely you’re here for more than their cries”
Sorg exclaims “To take your life, you knave!”

At this Joethryn dismisses his men,
Unshackles Sorg and hands him a sword.
“You dare arm me? 'Twill be your chagrin.”
Bewildered, unto Joethryn, Sorg roared.

“I don’t lack honor.” Asserts Joethryn
As he draws his weapon and takes stance.
Sorg rises to his feet, from his shin.
Warring, their swords aggressively dance.

“Prisoner, I am too.” Joethryn states.
Battle raging, Joethryn continues,
“There’s no order with thieves, lawless mates.
A king among thieves is quite the ruse.”

Swords still clashing, Joethryn told a tale:
“As a lad I was easily swayed
Following the bandits and their trail,
Not turning back, as I was afraid.

Somehow I came to be crowned their king
Despite my distaste for what I’ve done.
I’m as much a prisoner, rotting
in my cell of woe, nowhere to run.

I’d rather be captive,conscience clear
Than be plagued by overwhelming guilt.
Now you’re here to kill me, ‘twould appear.
Should it cease the pain, my blood be spilt.”

As the battle breaks Sorg does inquire
“Is this all you desire from your life?
Would you rather atone the prior?
There is no need to prolong the strife.

Come here I have, to see that you’re slain
But much honor I sense within thee;
And I ponder what peace you might gain
Should you join in my crusade and flee.”

“Flee!?” Joethryn bellowed, “Surely you jest.
King or not, I shall be killed on sight.
Your cause; it’s goal if I might request?”
Joethryn asks, free of malice or sleight.

Sorg replies with ambition and zeal
“The ruin of evil by my hand,
Help the oppressed, is my quest I feel.
If you seek redemption, take my hand.”

Embracing Sorg’s hand with gratitude
Joethryn proposes freeing the slaves.
A plan between the two starts to brew
To save injured slaves from early graves.