07-27-2014, 07:47 PM
Obviously, the meter needs a bunch of work. But suggestions other than that are very much appreciated.
The Servant
The fear is surging through my veins. The sweat
glues dust onto my feet. The words I try
to scream ahead, my tongue seems to forget.
My only thought: I do not want to die.
My master meets me as I run inside.
He asks me why I shake, so short of breath.
I stutter “I must run away and hide:
at market, I came face to face with death.
Her waxy skin a thin veil on her bones,
glazed eyes rolled back, her hood drawn low, her hair
long gone… she grabbed my arm. With mourner’s moans
she gasped my name, and gripped me with her stare.
Now to Samarra I must ride, and there
stay locked away, to pass the night in prayer.
Death
I peel my crackled, greasy lips, and greet
him with a putrid grin. His face drains grey,
his body shakes: what did he think he’d meet?
I pass him by, and whisper “Not today.”
But as I walk away, he grabs my cloak.
He croaks “My servant boy… you let him be. ”
I laugh, and turn, and watch the fat man choke.
“Good sir, I have to ask you pardon me,
for I was merely shocked to find your slave
on Baghdad’s filthy streets a bit ago:
this very night I take him to his grave.
I did not expect him here this morn, no
not at all… not here, in this bazaar, a
soul I’m to meet tonight in Samarra.”
The Servant
The fear is surging through my veins. The sweat
glues dust onto my feet. The words I try
to scream ahead, my tongue seems to forget.
My only thought: I do not want to die.
My master meets me as I run inside.
He asks me why I shake, so short of breath.
I stutter “I must run away and hide:
at market, I came face to face with death.
Her waxy skin a thin veil on her bones,
glazed eyes rolled back, her hood drawn low, her hair
long gone… she grabbed my arm. With mourner’s moans
she gasped my name, and gripped me with her stare.
Now to Samarra I must ride, and there
stay locked away, to pass the night in prayer.
Death
I peel my crackled, greasy lips, and greet
him with a putrid grin. His face drains grey,
his body shakes: what did he think he’d meet?
I pass him by, and whisper “Not today.”
But as I walk away, he grabs my cloak.
He croaks “My servant boy… you let him be. ”
I laugh, and turn, and watch the fat man choke.
“Good sir, I have to ask you pardon me,
for I was merely shocked to find your slave
on Baghdad’s filthy streets a bit ago:
this very night I take him to his grave.
I did not expect him here this morn, no
not at all… not here, in this bazaar, a
soul I’m to meet tonight in Samarra.”