Well, I've got a lot of background research to do before I get started on my BIGGER project (it's going to be AMAZING--INCREDIBLE--THE BEST SHOW QUIBBLO'S HAD IN YEARS alsothefirst shutup wellit'strue noit'llbeinstoryformatanywaysoit'snotashow) So! While I'm waiting, I've decided to throw you all a glorious poem I wrote today! Points for whoever figures out what it's about!
She holds the sword
With hands shaky and old
Calluses dwelling where no one else knows
Muscles tensed near tearing right out, ligaments that are falling apart.
And none will know this but she.
Her armor does not fit quite well
Though none she sees around can tell
She must strain against it, as all of its pressure
Pushes against her, near-breaking her bones.
The marks of its pain, no one but she will know.
She could not lift this weight alone
Not one strong, nor iron, just leafed in stone
She gets by as one manifold, a thousand faces and hands can hold
The single face that shows of stone
But not one will speak but the face they know.
Some call this just, some call it valiant,
As the tomb of the stone face draws shut over her
As the deaths inside, none but she will know.
None will wipe, but avert their eyes, and see only legions, of fallen foes
For that is the face and the thoughts that they wish to see
Much more than the dread whole
And more than the dread hole
That none but she will know