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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Supernatural · #2203449
An extended version of a 24 syllable poem that I wrote yesterday.
Moccasined Feet

A silent midnight it was,
as she rose from the ground
and slid her feet into
soft and supple moccasins.
Perfect for the occasion
for stealth,
for silence,
were of the greatest importance.
She stepped gently,
her feet never laying down grass
as she made her way
to where the invaders lay,
wrapped in their dreams of victory.
She heard the screams
that her people would make,
should these intruders get their own way.
As they were lost in slumber
she gathered their arms.
Should she kill them as they intended
to do to her own race?
She could do it,
so easily,
and vanish without leaving a trace of her presence;
just a large-scale slaughter,
a mystery to all but those that believed.
It wasn't her way.
She would spill no blood,
not even a single drop
but would steal their guns, their ammunition,
the knives they had hidden about their person;
so gentle a touch they'd not feel
the removal of those blades.
So strong she was that she carried those
tools of death
while still stepping,
back to her grave,
where those weapons would lay
with her bones.
She might not have fought;
had decided on no victory,
but at least she had made
a level killing field.

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