Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story

The living.

It lingers in the background, between the grasses and the trees, beneath the undergrowth and behind the rocks on the banks of the streams.

It’s death that lingers there, in all places then in none, always watching, never seen at least until the deed is done.

It needs not a storm to pass, no roaming band of wolves, no great song or battle raid but anything, even mundane.

It can strike with sword held high or take one wandering a field, it comes for young and old in times both wondrous and poor, serving none but fulfilling its deeds.

To know that it is there, watching, knowing and certain, within me causes my heart to rise for I am alive this day.

And come what may or who would come to change my fate tomorrow, for now I am immortal until my time is all but done.




A prompt response.

8 thoughts on “The living.”

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