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[Don Blake]

A poem.

They have begun to crumble, but the ancient walls still stand
Towers rising  like the fingers of some ghastly giant’s hand
Zaoth, the dead city where I’ve led my little band
Once world rulers, now ruined, yet still terrible and grand.

There was Jenkins, with his rifle, with his pistols and his sword
Before the jungle he was charming, he loved dancing and the cards
Then one fevered night he dreamed the Demiurge’s Shards
It’s been nearly three months now since he’s said a single word.

There was Jack the Scotsman, the most valiant of his race
He swore to me he’d not give in until he touched the city’s face
Alone with me and Jenkins he won through to reach this place
Now he wanders softly praying for his heathen god’s grace

When we set out there was Harold, there was Maxie who was cook
And the German student Johann with his damn queer iron books
But when Harold fell to his death, Maxie stayed behind to weep
And the less that’s said of Johann’s fate, the better we’ll all sleep.
 
But at last we three won through it, forth from the jungle stumbled
And we laughed and whooped and climbed about on the ancient rubble
Our skin covered with bug bites and our faces coarse with stubble.
But Jenkins still was silent and thunder began to rumble.

Soon Jack and I fell quiet as we heard the thunders roar
And for shelter we dashed through an ancient temple’s door
There were alters made of skulls, and slanted grooves along the floor
And we knew the temple had seen more than its fair share of gore.

But we were not faint of heart, we three who had run through
There was treasure in the temple, gold and silver, gemstones too
And we flinched not to deface the statues of the ancient gods
Jenkins spat in one’s eye, the glorious doomed sod.

We slept there in the temple, while the thunder roared outside
And when I woke I found that poor brave Jenkins had died
With a smile on his face, and deep gashes in his hide.
And Jack the Scotsman slept and dreamed, and for his dreams he cried

I tried to wake the Scotsman, but his slumber would not break
I went outside for water, but my thirst I could not slake
I sat and thought of London, fled when I slew that rake,
I thought perhaps that Zaoth was the last mistake I’d make.

I’ve fought doomed last stands, that not God himself could save
For fourteen days a band of cannibals made me their slave
Ships had sank beneath me, but I won through the waves
And yet I feel this city will yet prove to be my grave.

I went into the temple, smashed the idols of gold
If I could not win my life, at least I could die bold
The fear drained out of me and I felt myself turn cold.
And in truth I never really had expected to grow old.

I shot the Scotsman sleeping, in truth for his own good
I burnt him and Jenkins, taking hours to dry the wood
Then I sat and wrote these words, not knowing why I should
In a bottle in a river, perhaps they’ll save some blood

For no more should be spilled here, it pleases Zaoth’s gods too much
And their mirth is awful, you wouldn’t think it such
And now I go to spill my blood to feed their made lust
May they choke on it as I fade away to dust.

I don't know, I like the beginning, but I think I became rather a slave to my rhymes and that hurt the latter parts of it.

[alfie275]

It seems a bit childish, what with the rhyming. I would suggest instead using methods such as metaphors, internal rhyme, line breaking etc to emphasise parts instead of the rhyming pattern.