The Insulter
â€˜Ο Υβριστήσ’
He turned on his prey
and with purpose and passion
He began to destroy it
In the cruelest fashion
His words like a sword, he wove its defeat
Deftly weaving
Keenly deceiving
He wrapped himself in his conceit
He examined the mob that had watched his performance
They dissipated slowly
Surprised by his petulance
They remembered his ridicule, and feared it, wholly
But he feared no judgment
For he committed no sin
By doing the deeds
His power could win
Accidental Murder
‘Ττυχαίοσ Φονεύω’
A man sat in his home
It was peaceful and quiet
As he sat alone
Reading his book
Conflict was obscured
For reality, his mind forsook
At the sound of a knock
He abruptly woke
Leaving the chair to rock
He rose to welcome the guest
He walked to the door
Against his nerves anxiety pressed
He called softly:
“Who is it?â€
Receiving just another knock, he called out again, his voice now loud and lofty
He held his breath and thought
He could walk outside
He was armed with but naught
He steeled himself as he chose his tool
He owned a shield and a sword, well kept and unused
“With a shield, I can defend for now.â€
“With a sword, I can defend forever.â€
So he fetched his blade, and grasped the hilt, dusty and cool
Cautiously he opened the door
To see a stranger lunge toward him
He waited not a second more
Before he struck, fumbling with his blade
The corpse had already hit the floor
Before he realized the mistake he had made
“This was no enemy of mine,†he thought, breathing hard
As he picked up the paper in the hand of the man he had killed
He recognized it as not a slip of paper, but a card
It was a father, not a stranger, that he had killed
The move had not been a lunge, but the eager leaning toward a hug
Though it was not his blood that splattered the floor, it was his own heart he had stilled
The corpse chanted:
“Happy birthday, murderer!â€
“Best wishes, destroyer!â€
“I loved you, betrayer.â€
And he died, but beyond death, the corpse chanted.
Purity in Death
‘Καθαρότησ εν Χάροσ’
Sometimes a man may go through life
Never knowing pain or strife
Ignorant of his evil, he lies
In a wail his deaf ears do not hear, the world cries
He moves through life as an imitator
An accuser, never seeing the true perpetrator
Screaming wildly
Pointing blindly
He judges the innocent
Overlooking the sentenced
Until the final revelation
Brings him self-condemnation
Into his own flesh he drives his blade
Regretting the mistakes that he made
The blood pours out
But his soul flutters about
For all the blood his heart is drained
His soul pours out impurities once contained
And when the blood leaves the corpse but a withered shell
His soul will rejoice; spared its fearsome hell
As he dies he serves the dead
And though the ground is stained crimson red
And he grows more ragged with every breath
The man who could not see finds purity in death.
these are based loosely on some Greek literature.