A series named 'Untitled'

[HaloDestroyer]

Heya guys, I've recently had Haiku published, but I much prefer the following works of mine. Could you let me know what you think?

 

XxX-Ben-xXx

 

 

********

 

UNTITLED

 

You hear the glasses being filled,

You smell the spilt wine, and the cheap perfumes,

You care not, for they will all be vanquished,

The sound of plates clinking,

The sounds of stainless steel on china just serves to stoke the furnace

of your rage,

Rather than help those. . . creatures in there announce their nobility,

and wealth,

They, in their dinner dress and tight-fitting gowns,

You, clad in black, a soldier of unknown rank or cause,

As she enters the bathroom, you see the eternity of surprise in her

eyes,

Your blade flashes, toted inexorably,

She falls to the ground,

You add another mark to your tally,

Titled 'those cleansed',

The sounds of glass breaking,

It is time.

 

The gunmetal feels pleasurably cold in your hands,

Its weight reasssuring,

It is a guarantee,

You will serve your faith well,

The first shot is fired,

The bullet leaves the barrel,

Flying straight and true,

Ploughing through flesh and splintering bone alike,

The flare from the gun is a celebratory firework to you,

The show must go on,

Bullets fly,

Arcing through the air like the arrows of old,

You hit your mark,

Thousands of years of oppression and hatred are released in these

first few seconds,

Images of ancestors long-gone flash thorugh your mind,

The loudest sound you have ever heard issues forth from your weapon,

A dry, 'clack',

The time barrier that was in operation is shattered,

Your blade carries on, glinting in the light of the chandeliers,

Overturned tables, broken plates and glass,

The dead and dying, some crying softly, yet, some lie still, in pools

of their own blood,

Another falls before you, but you do not relent,

Emotion left your soul a long time ago.

 

You operate as a machine, your slaughter is but an art, appreciated back

where you grew up,

Death and destruction a way of life there,

You catch a movement in the corner of your eye,

He crawls to the door,

A gaping hole in one leg,

You feel no pity as you drive the blade through his skull,

Only relief, and satisfaction,

May their god have mercy on thier souls,

For, you know your god will be pleased with you,

You have purged the unfaithful,

As you turn to leave, you stoop to take something from the floor, a

memento,

Proof.

 

As you turn the ignition in your car,

You feel a sharp pang,

It was there, and now it's gone,

The engagement ring hits the dashboard of your brand-new, expensive car,

You're as bad as them really.

 

UNTITLED II

 

The raw thunder of shells impacting,

The sustained drone of machinegun fire,

You duck back into hiding, as the man beside you is hit with a spray of

shrapnel,

Blood covers every surface, a red mist hovering just above the battlefield,

They, fearless, relentless in advance,

You, exhausted, dirty, scared,

You raise your weapon again, and fire it,

Futile.

They charge, screaming their battlecries,

You see the pure, bezerker rage in his eyes as he raises his rifle,

The adreneline reserve you had is spent,

Mustering the strength takes eons, an eternity,

Time slows, the horrifying sights found accross the battleground fill your

vision,

All compacting, into your own personal hell,

Batting his gun aside with your bayonet, you stab, twist, and pull,

You can't afford to waste the strength needed to pull the knife free,

You take one from one of the corpses littering the floor.

You stand alone, atop a mountain of skulls,

A weapon in each hand, you blaze away at the enemy,

Not a worry, not a care, the enemy falls before you,

The rest of the squad are dead, or in retreat, but you stand firm,

You were a soldier, now you're a hero,

A veteran.

Reality beckons once more, with its taloned claw,

You're still crouching in that same foxhole,

You make the sign of the cross,

The hole is filled with a mixture of rainwater, shrapnel, and blood,

They are coming, you can hear them,

Softly they tread, can they smell your fear?

This is it, the final push,

Your rifle feels heavy with the bayonet on the end,

Your muscles weaken by the second,

You feel your life-force slipping away, inch by inch,

If you're going to do it, do it quick,

Again, you kiss the piece of metal hanging from a chain around your neck,

You fly, on divine wings,

A cloud of air under your feet,

You havnt touched the ground,

The scenery flies past you as a blur,

The recoil as your weapon barks,

Your eyes sharpened, you see each bullet fly, and land admist the teeming

bodies,

Some fall, others duck,

You can feel their burning hatred,

You see a foxhole occupated by a lone foe,

You change your angle of charge,

You go in for the kill.

He looks exhausted, dirty, scared,

He barely gathers the strength to slay another of your company,

He lets the blade drop with the body,

You reach the hole,

You slow, and come to a halt,

The realisation hitting you much harder than any bullet or shell ever

could,

He looks up at you, his dull, lifeless eyes, fear and helplessness evident,

You stand there, unsure, unwilling,

You pull the trigger anyway.

 

UNTITLED III

 

You hang there, each breath you take lashing the inside of your lungs,

burning your throat,

The chains binding your hands cut into your wrists, as they hang you from

the wall of the chamber,

The wall, damp and cool, your only mercy,

The air, hot and humid, the acrid stench of stale sweat adding to the

inferno in your head,

He looms closer.

 

All you see are his eyes,

Your own blood starts to flood your lungs, as he beats you, yet again,

You start to laugh, your cracked, dry voice echoing around the cavernous

room,

Invading the heads of the others hung there.

 

He can't hurt you where you're going,

He realises your escape is inevitable, and his flurry of blows worsens,

getting harder and faster,

Your muscles relax,

Your head droops,

Blackness.

You are free.

 

The others murmur between them,

About the lucky one who died,

For the worst is yet to come.

 

 

********

 

Could somebody please reply; your favourite, pointers, and general critique are greatly appreciated!

 

Ben.

[i_hate_the_world47]

Well i didnt have a favorite i loved them all.you have a great style and your poetry really captures the reader.Great job and keep it up.

 

~Meagan~

[boredguy]

man, i reallly like the way you make the poem flow...its really smooth writing. keep it up

[jaiva]

You have a way with words but the poems seem very angry.

Jaiva