The Epic

by Phoebe Sandlin

Recount, Monster, Muse, the tales of soldiers past,
Rekindled flame consuming flesh to bone
And shields unbent, unbroken, facing would-be mortal trials.
Of stories archived none exist so cold
As that of winter’s lady, widowed ere turned old,
Caught in synthetic embrace immune to touch like fire,
And of the spider’s soldier, who once followed freedom’s son
Till ice removed all perception of time
And blood did cover his semblance of love.
Once found and raised the spider grew fangs.
Darkness latched on in war, infestation,
Howling wind found his fell tomb
And monsters dug him up too soon.


Phoebe Sandlin is a freshman from Virginia Beach, VA, but who lives in FL. She’ll probably major in starving artistry, with a minor in French.

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