Here's the first poem I'm doing for my Creative Writing... stuff. I'll be redrafting it now and again, and so far it hasn't got a title.
Perched at the top, he looks down the cliff with a basalt stare.
They cling on stubbornly, afraid to look up.
There is no room for hope here
Black against the sky.
Now he will reach out a gravelly hand
And crush their dreams
The way he was taught.
Thousands of icy fragments in his eyes pierce the air.
Swirls of tension hold them back always.
They must write their wills
With numb fingers.
And they are cast out into a world
Flooded in despair
So that they might learn.
More coming soon!