‘Gronze’ rhymes with ‘bronze’
Sir Edgar Gronze, of Meager Moor,
A brave and noble knight
Had iron nerves and steely eyes,
And muscles made of might.
His horse was white as fallen snow,
His armor gleamed and shone;
His sharpened sword was quick and fast,
It sliced through flesh and bone.
He fought in battles far and wide
And so, in every town,
They sang his praises to the skies.
He tore opponents down.
He fought an army quick and fierce,
And conquered them with ease.
He grappled with the last of them
As sunset touched the trees.
They shouted insults, flashed their swords,
They bragged of battles past.
Sir Edgar Gronze was merciless,
His enemy was fast.
Eventually the man collapsed,
And cried, “Your battle’s won!”
“Have mercy!” wept the Fallen Man,
Sir Edgar showed him none.
He simply raised his massive sword,
And swung with all his might…
The Fallen Man lay motionless,
His eyes devoid of light.
Sir Edgar Gronze was welcomed back,
A hero of the war —
But though he waved at friend and foe,
Inside, his soul was sore.
His mind was filled with thoughts of how
The Fallen Man had died.
Alone, he walked the Meager Moor,
His sword hung at his side.
And as he walked, the stars came out,
The shadows filled the ground;
But even through his reverie,
Sir Edgar heard a sound.
As if the wind had gained a voice —
A slow and ragged groan —
As if the breeze had whispered ‘Gronze!’
It chilled him to the bone.
Though solitary in the dark,
He ventured a “Hello?”
And drew his sword, prepared to face
Some silent, unseen foe.
Again, a tattered voice was heard,
A sleepy, yawning moan,
It whispered ‘Gronze!’ into his ear,
But still he was alone.
Then, from the shadows of the moor,
Appeared a darker shade,
And from the fog before the knight
Emerged the man he slayed.
His sockets, sunken in his head,
His eyes, both gaunt and wide,
His hair hung limp about his face,
And ‘Gronze!’ was what he cried.
He walked, a slow and dragging walk,
Sir Edgar turned and ran,
He fled the ghost inside his head,
The phantom Fallen Man.
Sir Edgar Gronze, of Meager Moor,
Was never seen again
And battles far and wide were fought
By weaker, lesser men.
And now, a spirit rides the land,
Opaque, and ghostly white,
He howls his dark revenge to those
Who walk the moor at night.
Grade: 9
Woodley Park
Washington, DC
Edgar Allan Poe
A world where Donald Trump is not president and people are ACTUALLY equal.
Melanie Howard