The Spirit Of Citadel Poem by Thea Pound

The Spirit Of Citadel

Rising like knives, the glistening spires,
Reflecting the city; a hall of mirrors,
A resonant din from mechanical choirs,
Weaving roadways growing narrower, nearer;
A concrete jungle caged within walls,
As if to contain the metrogeist,
And the centerpiece, standing so tall,
Concordia Tower, founded on vice.

The Citadel stood, a solitary form,
A juggernaut sentry against the sky,
From greed and poverty it was born,
From truth and justice, destined to die;
Within its core, corruption reigned,
The people were trapped in avarice's spell,
Unequal, divided, embracing their chains,
Their injustice and fear had forged this hell.

Enslaved by desire and trod under heel,
Life at the mercy of Citadel's elite,
The citizens, hollow, forsook their ideals,
And just to get by, they turned to deceit.
The government, ruling from up on high,
Watched over their city with fiendish delight,
Broken in spirit, no one would defy;
Their positions secured by the citizen's plight.

Though treason and treachery bought their place,
The Council were treated as if there by choice;
To avoid conflict, they preserved their face,
Cautious, in case they would regain their voice.
But the Citadel's spirit, now restless, remained,
Not yet extinguished, it roamed the land,
No longer would it see it's people defamed,
And so it sought out a mouth and a hand.

In Concordia Tower, a novice was found,
And inside his heart, he carried a dream;
Though no more than a whisper, he heard the sound,
An urging within him to fight the regime;
Little by little, his hopes would grow,
Sparks forming torches to light the gloom,
And in time, his true purpose would start to show;
An envoy of Justice to rescue the doomed.

Deep within his being, a new feeling stirred,
An urgency nothing like he'd felt before,
Whispering in his heart, the city was heard,
Urging him on to settle the score.
Born from a union of spirit defiant,
And dreams about justice yet still not quashed;
The metrogeist fused with a heart self-reliant,
An agent was born to reclaim what was lost.

Friday, December 22, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: narrative,prologue
Thea Pound

Thea Pound

Portsmouth, UK
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