The parched and thirsty ground drank their sweat, their tears, their blood. Beaten backward, the leftmost flank allowed the enemy, rank on rank, to pour about them like a flood.
Crackling in their midst, with a thud, Warmage Alexos stabbed and smashed. Wading through the hellish mud, he made the enemy turn and scud. His singing blade through them slashed.
To meet him, a fell champion bashed through the chaff flowing away. To left, to right, his hammer crashed, while from his eyes a red light flashed; from hands, dark powers to rend and flay.
The looming combat held sway o’er those in safety and in peril - breathless. The fate of the day - hanging - who would die, who would slay? The sun, the clouds, the wind, stood still.
Both demon and mage felt the thrill of gamblers laying cards all-in. Experts in war, in the art of the kill, they fought each other on that hill, “Alex, come down to the kitchen!”
Alex quickly scrambled dinner-ward. Tossed about, the toys lay, patiently, to play.
Most of my poems have been built on something like the Old English alliterative style, but I decided with this to follow something like what Robert Frost did in The Road Not Taken and Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening.
Thanks to @geekorner for his comments and critiques.
Thanks to the Isle of Write for a place to talk about writing and improve.
Recent works:
Home for Christmas Going (?) Mad Endeavor
art courtesy of @PegasusPhysics