Baharroth

Walter Kunkle Junius Paul Wright III Honors Creative Writing Sound Poem

Baharroth

Thud of hooves on well-tread stone, Bricks blacken and crack under its weight. The spearman, frozen, terrified. A mouth of fire that opens wide. Sparks sputter, spit and flit About the beast like fireflies. Its eyes – dull discs of reddish flame; Every adventurer knows its name: Baharroth.

The spearman knows what he must do. He lunges – flicks up Lance tip clips the ribs – A flesh wound, the beast is winded, And nothing more.

Hooves click again on bubbling slate. One last chance. This time he spins, Catches the brute midriff, Piercing molten skin. //CRITICAL HIT!// He can’t believe it. Molten blood drips from blackened lips. A dying sigh escapes from the chest of the beast. It swoons and staggers into the far wall Of its den. Baharroth hits the floor. Cloven feet twitch in a futile dance. It’s over. The spearman wins.

In a better-rendered world, a young boy saves and Turns off his game; he goes outside To play with his little wooden spear Before it gets dark.

//Baharroth holds no power here.//