�The Soul Was Killed With the Beast.�

He beats upon the beast,
With his mighty weapon,
He beats with all his rage,
With the sword in his hand,

With this hand, I shall mete Justice,
With this hand, I shall right all wrongs,
With this hand I shall protect you,
With this hand I shall have my revenge,

He beat upon the beast,
Again and Again,
And he beat until the beast lay limp,
And he continued to beat,
With all his rage and all his despair,
Until the beast let out all its life,
He beat upon the beast,
And with a great gash shed more of its blood,

He beats upon the beast,
Until he calms and thinks it through,
And remembers what he came for,
And the cause he fights for,

And so he beats again,
Harder, and faster than before,
To bury his pain in rage,
�Tis better than what he felt,

And so�

This hand was made to love you,
This hand was made to provide,
This hand was made to mete Justice,
This hand was made for vengeance.

He beats upon the beast,
Breaks his sword across its head,
He beats it still and beats it still,
Until his sword breaks at its hilt,
He beats the beast some more,
His hand chilled in the cold.

And so�
This soul was made to need you,
This soul was made to tell no lies,
This soul was made to protect all things,
This soul was made for you.

He beats upon the beast,
Broken hilt within freezing hand,
He beats upon the beast,
To expel it evil from the land,
He beats upon the beast,
The beast that he resembles,

And so�

I�ve been looking all my life for you,
With all myself wanting to make you mine,
I�ve hunted you my entire life, beast!
All that I ask of revenge is mine.

Hunt you to the ends of Earth I did,
Nothing there was I desired more than your head.

This hand was made to find you.
This hand was made to fight you.
This hand was made to kill you.

He beats upon the beast,
His sword hilt cracking,
His cold hand freezing,
He beats upon the dead beast,
His vengeance cannot be complete.

He beats upon the beast,
His hollow revenge exacted,
All there is left is hollow,
He must not stop.

Despair beneath despair,
Emptiness as dark as void,
Despair beyond pain.

He beats upon the beast,
Metal shard cutting his frozen hand,
He breaks more of the beast,
The beast that you resemble,

And so�

This hand was made to guide you,
This hand was made to free you,
This hand was made to warm you,

He beats upon the beast some more,
And all the rage in him subsides,
He hopes to see what really is,
He tries to recall what brought him here,

He beats against the beast,
Again and again and again,
His revenge as empty as his bleeding, frostbitten hand,

And so he beats the beast some more�

Despair beneath Despair beneath more of the same,
Emptiness darker than any void,
Colder than any dark place,
Pain he wished he could feel.

Fortunate are those who can feel pain.
None have more sorrow than those who cannot feel it.
Fortunate are those who can feel despair.
It means you have one to despair for.

He beats against the beast,
Desperation is all he has,
Other than his bleeding, frostbitten hand�

This hand will avenge you,
This hand will not hurt you,
This hand will mete Justice,
This hand will destroy you.

And so�

This soul will obey you,
No will does it have left,
This soul cannot love you,
No despair does it have left.

And so he beats against the beast,
His hand beaks on the monsters skull,
He beats on it some more,
The beast that resembles us,

This soul will not lie to you,
With not intent one cannot lie.
This soul will not please you,
No desire does it have left.

He breaks the skull of the beast,
With his maimed, frostbitten hand,
He beast upon the beast,
The beast that he has become.

And so�

All my hope is lost,
Left me all my courage has,

This hand was made for Justice,
This hand was made for vengeance,
This hand was made to protect you,
This hand was made to provide,
This hand was made to comfort you,
This hand was made to touch you,

He beats upon the beast,
That can be recognized no more,
His hand maimed beyond recognition,
He maims it some more,
And breaks as far up as his wrist,
He stabs the beast with a spear,
Fashioned with protruding bone.

Pity to the one who feels no pain,
The one who has nothing to feel.

Pity to the one with no despair,
The one with nothing to lose.

He slew the beast,
The beast that is himself.

With it�

This soul is made to please you,
This soul is made to nurture,
This soul is made to feel you,
This soul is made to find you,
This soul is made to protect all things.

And so the beast was slain.

The soul was killed with the beast,
with the hand�

He beats upon the beast (oh my gosh!) he beasts upon the best (holy crap!) he beats apon the beast (with?) a weapon! (how?) with hate...no wait...love! (oh my!) he beats upon the beast and it hurt and stuff so he protected the one he loved and stuff! (wow, your so freaking poetic!) lol, j/k man. But you know, it couldve been good if you didn't make each sentence so long, it makes it seem more like a story rather than a song/poem, it will help everything flow better, and it was way too long for what it was worth. Sorry, that's my true opinion.

I truly understand what you're getting at, but I don't really see your point. The lines weren't so long. I could've made every line Iambic pentameter or worse Iambic octameter and the lines would've been longer. There are many famous poets who liked to make their lines 20 syllables a piece. If you think poems are meant to always be short, then you my friend are sadly and gravely mistaken. Now, there are two types of taste buds in the world, those little "yes" men in the front sippin' mango flavord tap water and the dudes in the back of the class gettin' all the glory...

Another thing, poems tell stories. All poetry tells one sort of story or another, even if the story isn't obvious. You're remark about my poem being more like as story than a poem, is therefore nonsens that just demonstrats how little you really know about poetry. My poem looked like a story because it WAS A STORY DAMMIT! The name of the forum here is "Fiction and Poetry" afterall. Can't something be both? Our ancestors apparently thought it can. Now Beowulf was an epic poem, so was the Illiad, the Odyssey, the Maharabarhta, Kubla Khan, The f*cking Holy Bible, all of these were really long poems. All of them were narrative. Poems can tell stories; the first written stories were poems. Fiction and Poetry aren't separate concepts. To our ancestors dividing the two was impossible unless you replaced the fiction with fact, either way there was still poetry. YOU don't understand fition being poetry. Our ancestors didn't understant fiction not beign poetry

I don't get where you get the "with hate" part. The word "hate" shows up no where in the entire poem. You haven't actually critiqued my poem. You've just slammed it. I can truly understand why you think it sucks (For one thing, you've flat out said it.), but If you're going to slam my poem, at least read it all the way.

Now I'm saying that because if you had read it all the way, that wouldn't have been what you said. Oh you would've probably still thought it sucked. But you would've had a bit more to complain about than that...

Just the level at which you critiqued demonstrates that you either know very little of poetry, or you didn't read enough of the poem to give a decent critique. In other words, if you wanna say my poem sucked, you can do better than that!

To sum it all up, what's your point?

That's amazing Zachron ... it sort of put me in mind of 'Beowulf'. It is technically very well put together and you've used some great devices to help it flow and scan. The story is wonderful and brought to life by the eloquence of your writing.

Aeris2 : If you didn't like the poem then fair enough, everyone is entitled to their own opinion, I'm sure Zachron welcomes constructive critique but just slating his work is rather rude and thoughtless surely?