Well, um, as many of you probably know, there is a thread in this forum named "Far Art Ahoy", and as the name suggests, its for people to submit their fan art for Spiral Knights.
Now the thing is, I love poetry ^^ This thread is to motivate people into writing their own.................
So, um, yeah, start writing/posting ^^
A poem I wrote about [redacted] for Tevokkia's Contest :
All He Needs Is Love (If you can't stand long poems, don't read this ^^)
Beneath some fallen leaves;
On the Wolver dens floor,
Lies a Snipe; silent.
Flying no more...
His once flawless beauty
Of his purple feathers,
Are now torn away,
By the slimes and awful wolvers,
His beak is bent and broken;
He can barely sing,
The modest & kind heart he once had,
Is now beginning to die.
No knights looks up to this Snipe anymore.
He is just another fallen object,
Lying on the Wolver dens floor...
The little Snipe, as he dies,
Looks up at the blue skies,
And no knight even stops to cry,
Or to feel any emotions inside,
As his heart beats its last song,
No knight wonders if they have done wrong.
As it was, the Snipe just needed love;
Love, all along.
But there was no one there,
To mend his broken wings,
There was no one there,
To listen to the song he would sing.
The knights were too busy,
And too controlled by crystal energy,
To care at all about nursing a Snipe,
Back to proper health.
They could not feel emotions,
To the broken, sad, and lonely;
And spot a little Snipe,
Lying there,
On the forest floor,
They could not kneel down,
And carry him in their palm.
They could not heal him,
And make his frigid heart calm.
But there was some-knight,
Up in the sky,
He watched sadly,
As the little Snipe slowly died,
His hand reached down,
From the hole in the sky,
It carried the Snipe
Way up high.
Now the Snipe is home,
Free again.
Free to fly, free to sing,
A flight of no end,
But, down there,
Where the Snipe once lay;
On the Wolver dens floor,
Things get more difficult;
Worse than ever before,
More things die,
And drop to the core.
Things fade away,
Without leaving a trace,
And while they are now jolly,
We can not forget,
The Snipe we left there to die,
On the Wolver dens floor.
Snarbolax Son, standing in a darkness
His mind guarded by a gated fortress
He looked around, and heard them whisper
The voices sounding like a chaotic twister
Their arms reach out, hand clawed with knives
This must be it, the end of lives
But his mind opens, a light rushes in
Burning away all the cold hard sin
He runs for the light, tears filling his eyes
And then he wakes up, as the vision dies
A song, sung from the brilliant white
And I lay in Sanctuary, safe from evil's sight