I am working on a few new pieces. I should be able to post one or two within the next three days. At least, I am hoping. As always, I hope you guys will be able to comment on them.
Thanks,
Ian.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Vanish
** This is one of my newest. (composed in late may)
I'll be honest, I have no idea why I wrote it. The words just came together like an easy puzzle. I love this poem, and I really hope everyone else does. I consider it one of my best and I'd be disappointed if it is a failure. But, not all poems are meant for greatness, huh?
Let's hope for the best. Comment guys.
Vanish
Barely alive.
I can feel the pounding of the searing pangs in my head.
Temporal distortion of a voice so melodious.
But your voice is unheard!
Like fangs,
doused in poison you are.
A wanton display of my deprivation gone awry.
Bask in its decadence.
Lost in thought,
numbing like the cold antithesis of warmth.
The obsession is unparalleled,
by wishes made black and twisted.
Scream it to the sky,
all for the weary eyes that speak,
the voices in our heads,
"This is not, how it's supposed to
be!"
Can I feel?
The pain of your heart beating away against the bone.
Don't be the sacrificial martyr,
to this insanity.
Perish the thought,
purge it away with the voice of tears
that melt away in the rain as nonexistence.
Erroneous.
Bear the blame.
For I am not strong enough to carry the burden alone.
We need each other to salt the wounds,
and cry out in desperation.
Scream it high!
My hopes and dreams fly with your song.
Your self degeneration cries,
"This is not, how it's supposed to
be!"
Vanish,
Disperse in the ephemeral with the cry, "I can't!"
My darling, smile just once more.
So that we might fade into the tomes of hope lost.
Together in agony.
Shout 'till heaven hangs over,
Eternal silence in the arms of warmth,
and now we might erase ourselves, with the words,
"This is not, how it's supposed to
be."
I'll be honest, I have no idea why I wrote it. The words just came together like an easy puzzle. I love this poem, and I really hope everyone else does. I consider it one of my best and I'd be disappointed if it is a failure. But, not all poems are meant for greatness, huh?
Let's hope for the best. Comment guys.
Vanish
Barely alive.
I can feel the pounding of the searing pangs in my head.
Temporal distortion of a voice so melodious.
But your voice is unheard!
Like fangs,
doused in poison you are.
A wanton display of my deprivation gone awry.
Bask in its decadence.
Lost in thought,
numbing like the cold antithesis of warmth.
The obsession is unparalleled,
by wishes made black and twisted.
Scream it to the sky,
all for the weary eyes that speak,
the voices in our heads,
"This is not, how it's supposed to
be!"
Can I feel?
The pain of your heart beating away against the bone.
Don't be the sacrificial martyr,
to this insanity.
Perish the thought,
purge it away with the voice of tears
that melt away in the rain as nonexistence.
Erroneous.
Bear the blame.
For I am not strong enough to carry the burden alone.
We need each other to salt the wounds,
and cry out in desperation.
Scream it high!
My hopes and dreams fly with your song.
Your self degeneration cries,
"This is not, how it's supposed to
be!"
Vanish,
Disperse in the ephemeral with the cry, "I can't!"
My darling, smile just once more.
So that we might fade into the tomes of hope lost.
Together in agony.
Shout 'till heaven hangs over,
Eternal silence in the arms of warmth,
and now we might erase ourselves, with the words,
"This is not, how it's supposed to
be."
Where are you?
Where are You?
Drowning in Hell, they pay the Devil's Due.
While their precious world is softly crying,
in their darkest of hours, where are you?
Corruption and greed, the path they choose,
Leaving starving children, sick and shying.
Drowning in Hell, they pay the Devil's Due
Whisked away by the voice of a lovely muse,
Poor souls seduced to think they are flying,
in their darkest of hours, where are you?
Sad fools praise you, trapped in lines of drab pews
They shun cretins with loud gasps and sighing
Drowning in Hell, they pay the Devil's Due.
Their lives are run, seemingly as if zoos,
Veils thrown upon eyes from constant lying,
in the darkest of hours, where are you?
I lay low, pronouncing you as no ruse,
though my resolve is slowly dying.
Drowning in hell, I pay your Devil's Due,
But in my darkest hour, where are you?
Drowning in Hell, they pay the Devil's Due.
While their precious world is softly crying,
in their darkest of hours, where are you?
Corruption and greed, the path they choose,
Leaving starving children, sick and shying.
Drowning in Hell, they pay the Devil's Due
Whisked away by the voice of a lovely muse,
Poor souls seduced to think they are flying,
in their darkest of hours, where are you?
Sad fools praise you, trapped in lines of drab pews
They shun cretins with loud gasps and sighing
Drowning in Hell, they pay the Devil's Due.
Their lives are run, seemingly as if zoos,
Veils thrown upon eyes from constant lying,
in the darkest of hours, where are you?
I lay low, pronouncing you as no ruse,
though my resolve is slowly dying.
Drowning in hell, I pay your Devil's Due,
But in my darkest hour, where are you?
**I wrote this poem in rebellion at my grandmother. She keeps telling me that I'll burn in hell or I am a cretin or something like that. All of her christian views are so hypocritical, it makes me sick. And so, here it is.
The Un-attainable Heaven
Can they grasp the concept,
of a brusque impossibility?
The sins of their forefathers,
abominations of creation
Can never be forgiven?
But why is it we try,
to reach the un-attainable Heaven.
Why sit upon cloud nine
To be all alone,
When you can burn with me?
I still remember the day,
you told me I could be saved.
Like I ever had a chance,
to right the wrongs, fix the misdeeds,
and embrace salvation.
But why should I try,
to touch the un-attainable Heavens?
Why sit upon a golden throne,
embroidered with arrogant loneliness?
When we can burn together?
Why bend my knee willingly,
when I can spit in the savior's face?
And remark on his abandonment,
of a species teetering on the brink,
of self destruction?
And though we reach to the skies,
tears streaming into our eyes.
Crying out for the un-attainable Heavens,
to take the pain away,
No answers will ever come,
to keep our demons at bay.
The Un-attainable Heaven
Can they grasp the concept,
of a brusque impossibility?
The sins of their forefathers,
abominations of creation
Can never be forgiven?
But why is it we try,
to reach the un-attainable Heaven.
Why sit upon cloud nine
To be all alone,
When you can burn with me?
I still remember the day,
you told me I could be saved.
Like I ever had a chance,
to right the wrongs, fix the misdeeds,
and embrace salvation.
But why should I try,
to touch the un-attainable Heavens?
Why sit upon a golden throne,
embroidered with arrogant loneliness?
When we can burn together?
Why bend my knee willingly,
when I can spit in the savior's face?
And remark on his abandonment,
of a species teetering on the brink,
of self destruction?
And though we reach to the skies,
tears streaming into our eyes.
Crying out for the un-attainable Heavens,
to take the pain away,
No answers will ever come,
to keep our demons at bay.
Today
**I enjoy the happy rainbowness. This is the ending to my anthology. It rounded up "And so the world burns" the first poem, followed by "All hope is lost" and so on.
Today
Today was a day,
it was entirely like no other.
The skies were blue,
and the clouds were white.
The rivers were clean,
and rainbows in sight.
Was it strange,
that joy was so easily attained?
Why was it that the waters of life,
flowed free and unhindered,
to the natural world around?
It was quite a sight to behold.
Ancient enemies,
of the ancient world passed,
dropped their blades,
and embraced one another,
I felt so honored,
to witness the fantastic.
The impossible came reality,
and the world took to the sky,
on a flight of fancy.
It was truly a spectacle,
never told before,
but one for history.
Today was a day,
that changed so very much.
Monkeys became men,
and heathens were redeemed.
Cities were covered in gold,
to memorialize this day.
Dreams are lined,
in the silvery rays,
of the Sun ever shining,
above the world now quiet,
no longer fearing the fires of war
to reclaim their lives.
Today was a day,
unlike all others.
It was a day of peace and quiet.
A day of such changing emotion.
The world was moving,
but the hate was frozen.
Today was the day,
I stopped holding on,
to my perverted views,
and psychotic self righteousness.
The arrogance flooded away,
and the dark was lifting.
Today was the day,
all veils were tossed aside.
And the world looked upon us.
A smile was now on its face.
Might I take your hand,
so we can waltz together into its light.
Today
Today was a day,
it was entirely like no other.
The skies were blue,
and the clouds were white.
The rivers were clean,
and rainbows in sight.
Was it strange,
that joy was so easily attained?
Why was it that the waters of life,
flowed free and unhindered,
to the natural world around?
It was quite a sight to behold.
Ancient enemies,
of the ancient world passed,
dropped their blades,
and embraced one another,
I felt so honored,
to witness the fantastic.
The impossible came reality,
and the world took to the sky,
on a flight of fancy.
It was truly a spectacle,
never told before,
but one for history.
Today was a day,
that changed so very much.
Monkeys became men,
and heathens were redeemed.
Cities were covered in gold,
to memorialize this day.
Dreams are lined,
in the silvery rays,
of the Sun ever shining,
above the world now quiet,
no longer fearing the fires of war
to reclaim their lives.
Today was a day,
unlike all others.
It was a day of peace and quiet.
A day of such changing emotion.
The world was moving,
but the hate was frozen.
Today was the day,
I stopped holding on,
to my perverted views,
and psychotic self righteousness.
The arrogance flooded away,
and the dark was lifting.
Today was the day,
all veils were tossed aside.
And the world looked upon us.
A smile was now on its face.
Might I take your hand,
so we can waltz together into its light.
**My sarcasm at its finest.
A slight Nihilist
The world is full of hilarities.
Such as a death in a family,
an abuse in a convent.
Or even better,
the doctor hooked on his own drugs.
It's oh so sad!
That little plane crash and claimed 200,
Y'know, the one where the pilot had,
a mid flight fix, just to get by?
Ah well. Less meat sacks to deal with.
When one thinks, "It's really not my problem"
Then alll Hell breaks loose.
Because you're damned by the monkies
who justify themselves by their false emotions,
like love for their fellow monkey.
One could easily serperate,
oneself from the other bannana munchers.
But they turn around and munch themselves.
Have you seen them fight over that fruit?
It always ends in fire, brimstone, and mass wars.
.Have the monkies reached the apex,
of their feigned civility?
Or will their revelations revert them,
passed their hatred and fear?
It's a wonder countries and republics still stand sometimes.
Few can only hope to watch from sidelines,
far too narcissistic to engage in the trivialities,
that lead corrupt souls astray.
It's funny how their "free will"
morphs them into barbaric slaves
Maybe I am that narcissist.
Too bad I guess,
Too bad I won't save them.
I will pull my arm away, and watch them drown in flame.
Because I just want to watch the world burn.
A slight Nihilist
The world is full of hilarities.
Such as a death in a family,
an abuse in a convent.
Or even better,
the doctor hooked on his own drugs.
It's oh so sad!
That little plane crash and claimed 200,
Y'know, the one where the pilot had,
a mid flight fix, just to get by?
Ah well. Less meat sacks to deal with.
When one thinks, "It's really not my problem"
Then alll Hell breaks loose.
Because you're damned by the monkies
who justify themselves by their false emotions,
like love for their fellow monkey.
One could easily serperate,
oneself from the other bannana munchers.
But they turn around and munch themselves.
Have you seen them fight over that fruit?
It always ends in fire, brimstone, and mass wars.
.Have the monkies reached the apex,
of their feigned civility?
Or will their revelations revert them,
passed their hatred and fear?
It's a wonder countries and republics still stand sometimes.
Few can only hope to watch from sidelines,
far too narcissistic to engage in the trivialities,
that lead corrupt souls astray.
It's funny how their "free will"
morphs them into barbaric slaves
Maybe I am that narcissist.
Too bad I guess,
Too bad I won't save them.
I will pull my arm away, and watch them drown in flame.
Because I just want to watch the world burn.
Miserable
**I actually like this. It fit in with my anthology involving the "All hope is lost" and "If you give the world a cookie". Again, help with grammar.
Miserable
Don't the boundaries,
between utter joy and torment,
get thinner with each day?
Or does the torment just take over?
Kinda funny in a way,
the maddening, bittersweet pain,
like that of a paper cut, or splinter,
that you just hope never goes away.
Oh, but it fades away.
It always fades away,
into that sickening, numb feeling.
A grey matter.
Do you ever tire of the grey?
Is it easier in black and white?
Dealing in ignorance,
always paves the way of bliss.
Or is that a fallacy?
None can be truly happy in stupidity.
You just can't comprehend the pain.
And I hate you for it.
Damn you, ignorance!
I curse thy name for it.
Yet I praise the condolence it provides,
to the weak minded.
Those of meager minds feel the love,
of pack wolves concerned for themselves.
Is the lone stallion truly such a terrible path?
Or is it the one of enlightenment?
But to be enlightened is to be alone.
To suffer.
The flames of those who shun,
burn everlasting.
The social lobotomy offered,
is such a comforting escape,
for the weak willed.
But is compromise the only answer?
Must I toss the values to the wind?
Or is there another way.
I don't want the pain any longer.
But am I willing to live without misery?
Miserable
Don't the boundaries,
between utter joy and torment,
get thinner with each day?
Or does the torment just take over?
Kinda funny in a way,
the maddening, bittersweet pain,
like that of a paper cut, or splinter,
that you just hope never goes away.
Oh, but it fades away.
It always fades away,
into that sickening, numb feeling.
A grey matter.
Do you ever tire of the grey?
Is it easier in black and white?
Dealing in ignorance,
always paves the way of bliss.
Or is that a fallacy?
None can be truly happy in stupidity.
You just can't comprehend the pain.
And I hate you for it.
Damn you, ignorance!
I curse thy name for it.
Yet I praise the condolence it provides,
to the weak minded.
Those of meager minds feel the love,
of pack wolves concerned for themselves.
Is the lone stallion truly such a terrible path?
Or is it the one of enlightenment?
But to be enlightened is to be alone.
To suffer.
The flames of those who shun,
burn everlasting.
The social lobotomy offered,
is such a comforting escape,
for the weak willed.
But is compromise the only answer?
Must I toss the values to the wind?
Or is there another way.
I don't want the pain any longer.
But am I willing to live without misery?
**This piece of work is quite weird. I f***ed the grammar up and all kinds of stuff for this. It was a 'screw you' to one of my teachers for calling me a 'druggy' because of my long hair.
Mellow
I long,
for bubble gum trees,
peppermint Suns,
and Powdered sugar clouds.
Can we walk in,
silly putty shoes,
driving play-dough cars,
on the malted milk free-way.
Why can't the basement be,
the milky way,
and enlightenment just the scent away.
Feeling great today
And I feeling nice right now,
but I forget,
I'm only feeling better right now
Truth is just a step away
The sickly swirls,
are only so nice for a time.
Because they all go away,
back to reality.
And I long,
for gum-drop leaves,
marshmallow Steves,
Tye-Dye Oceans,
and positive emotions.
And I'm feeling nice right now,
but I forget,
the truth is only a minute away.
I'll only be feeling better for right now.
Mellow
I long,
for bubble gum trees,
peppermint Suns,
and Powdered sugar clouds.
Can we walk in,
silly putty shoes,
driving play-dough cars,
on the malted milk free-way.
Why can't the basement be,
the milky way,
and enlightenment just the scent away.
Feeling great today
And I feeling nice right now,
but I forget,
I'm only feeling better right now
Truth is just a step away
The sickly swirls,
are only so nice for a time.
Because they all go away,
back to reality.
And I long,
for gum-drop leaves,
marshmallow Steves,
Tye-Dye Oceans,
and positive emotions.
And I'm feeling nice right now,
but I forget,
the truth is only a minute away.
I'll only be feeling better for right now.
A joke
**This fits the anthology with 'All hope is lost'. I hope you enjoy.
A Joke
I've got a joke, just for you.
Look around, can't you see?
The clowns, and fools, the jesters and monkies?
All of the morons, the lust driven junkies?
Do you like the state of the world?
Are you a hero, a martyr,
Fighting against all human desire?
Or a hypocrite and sociopath
with no way out of the insanity?
Can you tell me,
whether I should care about such a scene?
Should my heart draw a dream,
of green fields, milk and honey?
Or maybe horde idiocy as if some foul money?
Are you the product of your own making?
Or is that mask a farce you are faking?
Oh! But it's a sad, sick satire.
When it is the state of things, so very dire.
It is quite funny, right?
In fact, a timely sight.
I should laugh at myself for that one.
I am the joke, and the joke is I.
Isn't the air of irony nigh?
A Joke
I've got a joke, just for you.
Look around, can't you see?
The clowns, and fools, the jesters and monkies?
All of the morons, the lust driven junkies?
Do you like the state of the world?
Are you a hero, a martyr,
Fighting against all human desire?
Or a hypocrite and sociopath
with no way out of the insanity?
Can you tell me,
whether I should care about such a scene?
Should my heart draw a dream,
of green fields, milk and honey?
Or maybe horde idiocy as if some foul money?
Are you the product of your own making?
Or is that mask a farce you are faking?
Oh! But it's a sad, sick satire.
When it is the state of things, so very dire.
It is quite funny, right?
In fact, a timely sight.
I should laugh at myself for that one.
I am the joke, and the joke is I.
Isn't the air of irony nigh?
**This was part of an anthology I wrote, it's sibling poem was 'If you give the world a cookie'. I hope you all enjoy and notice the theme going.
All Hope is Lost
Run for the hills,
the world is ending before us.
The structures are crumbling,
and the towers are falling.
Are our eyes truly so blind,
to the storm that is rising so swift?
Or do we refuse to believe in
the tides that are rolling inward.
The rivers are awash in crimson,
and the oceans murky with poison.
The monkies continue
their pestillence all about the world.
I can see the warheads,
burning away the atmosphere.
They are raining down as judgment,
upon the helpless below.
Scream and cry in terror,
nothing can save our sad souls now.
Our plight is impossible fufill,
for how can we save you, when we can't save ourselves.
Is it really the end,
that justifies the means.
Why do we have to wait until Terra Firma is dying,
To realize all Hope is Lost.
All Hope is Lost
Run for the hills,
the world is ending before us.
The structures are crumbling,
and the towers are falling.
Are our eyes truly so blind,
to the storm that is rising so swift?
Or do we refuse to believe in
the tides that are rolling inward.
The rivers are awash in crimson,
and the oceans murky with poison.
The monkies continue
their pestillence all about the world.
I can see the warheads,
burning away the atmosphere.
They are raining down as judgment,
upon the helpless below.
Scream and cry in terror,
nothing can save our sad souls now.
Our plight is impossible fufill,
for how can we save you, when we can't save ourselves.
Is it really the end,
that justifies the means.
Why do we have to wait until Terra Firma is dying,
To realize all Hope is Lost.
If you give the world a cookie
**This is a poem I wrote to fit a theme and deadline. I hope you guys like the simple theme more than I. As always, comment.
If you give the world a cookie
If you give the world a reason,
it'll most surely fight.
If you give the world a gun,
it'll most surely shoot it.
If you give the world a tank,
they'll most surely drive it.
If you gave that world a bomb,
they'll most surely drop it.
If you gave the world a uniform,
he'll most certainly wear it.
If you raised the world an army,
he'll most certainly command it.
If you sacrificed the world a son,
she'll most certainly weep.
If you starved the world's children,
she'd most surely sell herself.
If you offered the world a treaty,
we will most surely sign it.
But if you offered the world lasting peace,
we would most surely trash it.
If you give the world a cookie
If you give the world a reason,
it'll most surely fight.
If you give the world a gun,
it'll most surely shoot it.
If you give the world a tank,
they'll most surely drive it.
If you gave that world a bomb,
they'll most surely drop it.
If you gave the world a uniform,
he'll most certainly wear it.
If you raised the world an army,
he'll most certainly command it.
If you sacrificed the world a son,
she'll most certainly weep.
If you starved the world's children,
she'd most surely sell herself.
If you offered the world a treaty,
we will most surely sign it.
But if you offered the world lasting peace,
we would most surely trash it.
Inkblot
**I must have composed this two whole years ago. This is quite old to me. Anyway, at the time, I was quite intrigued by the Rorschach test. Still am. I hope this causes some shivers for you.
Keep in mind. It is free verse, and choppy for a reason. As always, comment on any help with grammar.
Inkblot
Swirls of whites and blacks,
each puddle wringing dry a poor soul,
sucking away the stability of a weak mind.
Fires of doom burn behind the eyes
of the mad.
Salvation is thrust upon the poor and unfortunate
deemed deranged.
The puddles morph,
each into their own terror.
Dogs rip apart their owner,
guns shoot dead their creator
The world runs red with its own greed.
Manipulated,
is fear and chaos,
thrown upon the strange and odd
mutants within weak minds
Insanity is forced upon men
and children alike.
Chaos and turmoil,
trapped within millions of minds,
souls,
and hearts.
Swirls of white and black,
each puddle wringing dry a poor soul,
sucking away the stability of a weak mind.
Nightmares gush like ocean's behind the eyes
of the deranged.
Judgment is passed onto the twisted and perverted
deemed mad
They morph,
each into candy coated horrors long passed.
Men crumble with grief,
despair takes hold of heroes
and the globe withers in terror
Each blot,
forces itself into the subconscious
and tears away the last shreds of humanity,
Trapped in one heart,
one soul,
one mind,
one man.
Keep in mind. It is free verse, and choppy for a reason. As always, comment on any help with grammar.
Inkblot
Swirls of whites and blacks,
each puddle wringing dry a poor soul,
sucking away the stability of a weak mind.
Fires of doom burn behind the eyes
of the mad.
Salvation is thrust upon the poor and unfortunate
deemed deranged.
The puddles morph,
each into their own terror.
Dogs rip apart their owner,
guns shoot dead their creator
The world runs red with its own greed.
Manipulated,
is fear and chaos,
thrown upon the strange and odd
mutants within weak minds
Insanity is forced upon men
and children alike.
Chaos and turmoil,
trapped within millions of minds,
souls,
and hearts.
Swirls of white and black,
each puddle wringing dry a poor soul,
sucking away the stability of a weak mind.
Nightmares gush like ocean's behind the eyes
of the deranged.
Judgment is passed onto the twisted and perverted
deemed mad
They morph,
each into candy coated horrors long passed.
Men crumble with grief,
despair takes hold of heroes
and the globe withers in terror
Each blot,
forces itself into the subconscious
and tears away the last shreds of humanity,
Trapped in one heart,
one soul,
one mind,
one man.
Farewell
**This is my newest work. I must have written this on Friday. Zero edits thus far. I was playing with a child's perspective, hence the less than developed vernacular. What's it about? Again, your thoughts.
Farewell
Daddy said farewell when he went away.
He never said where he was going or if he'd stay.
But he never came back to us.
Daddy said he loved them before he left;
words they would hold dearly to their breast.
But they never felt it his reciprocation.
Daddy left a note for mommy that day.
he urged her not to worry or fret; he was okay.
But she broke down.
Brother said he was a villain, sister a hero.
Mommy said she hated him.
But they were only nursing their broken ego.
Mommy delighted when she got his letter.
But Daddy was already dead and gone.
And no one words could ever make it better.
Farewell
Daddy said farewell when he went away.
He never said where he was going or if he'd stay.
But he never came back to us.
Daddy said he loved them before he left;
words they would hold dearly to their breast.
But they never felt it his reciprocation.
Daddy left a note for mommy that day.
he urged her not to worry or fret; he was okay.
But she broke down.
Brother said he was a villain, sister a hero.
Mommy said she hated him.
But they were only nursing their broken ego.
Mommy delighted when she got his letter.
But Daddy was already dead and gone.
And no one words could ever make it better.
And so the World Burns
**This is an earlier work of mine. It, again, deals in negativity. I like the idea of humanity coming close to destruction. Much of my work is about it.
And so the World Burns
And so the world burns,
suffocated in the palm of our hand,
alight with wails of lament,
unheard by the cruel angels above.
And so the world is paralyzed,
frozen by the fear of its own inception,
hushed by the frost of unmaking,
shrouding a savior never to return.
And so the world cries,
their hands grasping vainly at the heavens.
A sky without sympathy,
is scorning the heretics below.
And so the world is hushed,
their fears quieted by a gentle voice.
But all too soon, peace ends,
and an everlasting chaos erupts.
And so the world is muffled,
disgusted by its own barbarism.
What animalistic demon,
would spill the blood of brothers?
And so the world is intoxicated,
by the impossible abandonment of the Gods,
but all the fears come to being,
leaving the pious baffled and scorned.
Thus they fall to their knees,
no solution to their soon ending nightmare,
cursing the Gods they became.
And so, the world burns.
And so the World Burns
And so the world burns,
suffocated in the palm of our hand,
alight with wails of lament,
unheard by the cruel angels above.
And so the world is paralyzed,
frozen by the fear of its own inception,
hushed by the frost of unmaking,
shrouding a savior never to return.
And so the world cries,
their hands grasping vainly at the heavens.
A sky without sympathy,
is scorning the heretics below.
And so the world is hushed,
their fears quieted by a gentle voice.
But all too soon, peace ends,
and an everlasting chaos erupts.
And so the world is muffled,
disgusted by its own barbarism.
What animalistic demon,
would spill the blood of brothers?
And so the world is intoxicated,
by the impossible abandonment of the Gods,
but all the fears come to being,
leaving the pious baffled and scorned.
Thus they fall to their knees,
no solution to their soon ending nightmare,
cursing the Gods they became.
And so, the world burns.
The Chair
**I figured, why not post a second short story? In this composition, I played about with personification. I have been told that it is quite confusing, but rest assured, it was my intention. As with this, and any other post, please help me with the grammar.
By the by, good luck with the 'meaning' of this one. Post your thoughts!
There’s a chair
There's a chair. A small chair fit for a man, a normal man of the time. He used to sit in the chair. The master would watch the game or read a bed time story to his young children before marching them to bed. Now, the chair is empty. Solitude had taken the seat of the owner that once dominated it. Silence, was now the only sound heard amongst the abode that had now been abandoned. And with its abandonment, the chair would forever lie empty.
Where had the master gone? Up above the seat, is a sky. It was grey, and black, and whips of old marshmallows danced about the horizon, dark and menacing, but never raining. Sometimes, it would thunder, and sometimes, the wind would howl, like a lonely wolf searching for a companion in the harsh desert nights. Whistle. Whistle. Whistle. Almost as if, the gusts spoke to themselves, to stave away the boredom left only by abandonment. Like the chair that sulked sorrowfully below them, forever wishing to dance freely about the sky, but forever doomed to be shackled to the Earth, waiting patiently for a weary, work exhausted sitter to return home that never would. It was this longing that would bring in the various small insect-like creatures that would inhabit the ramshackle, unkempt flooring below that chair. This longing, which would attract the whimsical creatures as company, that never felt, never thought, and most of all, were never warm, would only give the fallen throne little solace.
There's a rattle at the foot of the chair. A baby's rattle. It is shattered, and the scores of tiny beads that once were housed in the tiny, antique, spherical shell, had been scattered about a broken, wooden floor whose boards are now in disarray. They roll about in a dizzying dance, showboating a beautiful, ornate skill of the purest, most beautiful fluidity. It's a waltz, a stunning display, wrought by the moving winds of the horizon above- put on display for the lonely chair, whose unyielding depression left it sullen and drooping. But the brilliant performance was naught, but ignored by the brooding furnishings. And thus, each and everyday, when the wind blew, and the excess soared through the open beams of a roof, less than existent, the small beads from within a hand made, love crafted toy, would toddle about in a dance of marvelous display, until none remained. Until each and every pebble sized sphere disappeared into the crevices of condemned flooring.
However, this satire was not of a grand scale. The ivory white fence, now nothing but tarnished, scorched splinters lay about hither and thither, watched the hazy horizon for employers that would never arrive home from their never ending vacation. Yes, a vacation it could be called. For, without warning, the ones who pushed open and closed the ivory white fence vanished. One minute, a child played joyfully with a small puppy in a verdant yard, the next, gone. At least to the consciousness of the perimeter, everything had simply vanished in rapid succession. And from then on, from pillar to post, as it were, the fencing would search with what little vision it had left, for those that used to put it to work.
The scorched door, would solemnly view the fence’s daunting regimen with eyes of sorrow upon its panes. Once, it felt complete. For it too, was put to work by its tiny masters and the patrons of these tiny people. However, it now reckons itself to solitude. Unlike the various furnishings, structures, and elements about it, the door that lay slightly ajar seemed to not miss the masters-slavers. And slavers were they. It was, for this scorched opening, a happy reprieve from its constant use. It had long since wished for a break from its seemingly eternal bonds. During the darkness of the deepest midnight, the passage would be awakened by the constant, angry bickering of the king and queen of this small dominion. For one, it had grown tired, and welcomed the rest. But, it never seemed to cease its worry over the fence that it overlooked.
But the chair, of all, longed for its master. For decades, it waited. The wear and tear from the elements had finally begun to show its decay. The cushioning now leaked from the seat, springs protruded from the arms, and the spring loaded foot rest still sat parallel to the ground, as if the king had recently sat upon the throne, and forgot to push back the lever. But now, after so long, the armchair had begun to curse its former master. It hated and scorned the one that once needed it, but now, half a century had passed, and it was naught but a relic. And it stewed in its contemptuous antiquity. But how could it ever known..
There’s a chair. It sits alone in its scorn. It longs for a master who left it. And yet, it would never have known, that the ashes, and dust of its king remained scorched to its chair, eternally fixated in the frame of his last living moment.
By the by, good luck with the 'meaning' of this one. Post your thoughts!
There’s a chair
There's a chair. A small chair fit for a man, a normal man of the time. He used to sit in the chair. The master would watch the game or read a bed time story to his young children before marching them to bed. Now, the chair is empty. Solitude had taken the seat of the owner that once dominated it. Silence, was now the only sound heard amongst the abode that had now been abandoned. And with its abandonment, the chair would forever lie empty.
Where had the master gone? Up above the seat, is a sky. It was grey, and black, and whips of old marshmallows danced about the horizon, dark and menacing, but never raining. Sometimes, it would thunder, and sometimes, the wind would howl, like a lonely wolf searching for a companion in the harsh desert nights. Whistle. Whistle. Whistle. Almost as if, the gusts spoke to themselves, to stave away the boredom left only by abandonment. Like the chair that sulked sorrowfully below them, forever wishing to dance freely about the sky, but forever doomed to be shackled to the Earth, waiting patiently for a weary, work exhausted sitter to return home that never would. It was this longing that would bring in the various small insect-like creatures that would inhabit the ramshackle, unkempt flooring below that chair. This longing, which would attract the whimsical creatures as company, that never felt, never thought, and most of all, were never warm, would only give the fallen throne little solace.
There's a rattle at the foot of the chair. A baby's rattle. It is shattered, and the scores of tiny beads that once were housed in the tiny, antique, spherical shell, had been scattered about a broken, wooden floor whose boards are now in disarray. They roll about in a dizzying dance, showboating a beautiful, ornate skill of the purest, most beautiful fluidity. It's a waltz, a stunning display, wrought by the moving winds of the horizon above- put on display for the lonely chair, whose unyielding depression left it sullen and drooping. But the brilliant performance was naught, but ignored by the brooding furnishings. And thus, each and everyday, when the wind blew, and the excess soared through the open beams of a roof, less than existent, the small beads from within a hand made, love crafted toy, would toddle about in a dance of marvelous display, until none remained. Until each and every pebble sized sphere disappeared into the crevices of condemned flooring.
However, this satire was not of a grand scale. The ivory white fence, now nothing but tarnished, scorched splinters lay about hither and thither, watched the hazy horizon for employers that would never arrive home from their never ending vacation. Yes, a vacation it could be called. For, without warning, the ones who pushed open and closed the ivory white fence vanished. One minute, a child played joyfully with a small puppy in a verdant yard, the next, gone. At least to the consciousness of the perimeter, everything had simply vanished in rapid succession. And from then on, from pillar to post, as it were, the fencing would search with what little vision it had left, for those that used to put it to work.
The scorched door, would solemnly view the fence’s daunting regimen with eyes of sorrow upon its panes. Once, it felt complete. For it too, was put to work by its tiny masters and the patrons of these tiny people. However, it now reckons itself to solitude. Unlike the various furnishings, structures, and elements about it, the door that lay slightly ajar seemed to not miss the masters-slavers. And slavers were they. It was, for this scorched opening, a happy reprieve from its constant use. It had long since wished for a break from its seemingly eternal bonds. During the darkness of the deepest midnight, the passage would be awakened by the constant, angry bickering of the king and queen of this small dominion. For one, it had grown tired, and welcomed the rest. But, it never seemed to cease its worry over the fence that it overlooked.
But the chair, of all, longed for its master. For decades, it waited. The wear and tear from the elements had finally begun to show its decay. The cushioning now leaked from the seat, springs protruded from the arms, and the spring loaded foot rest still sat parallel to the ground, as if the king had recently sat upon the throne, and forgot to push back the lever. But now, after so long, the armchair had begun to curse its former master. It hated and scorned the one that once needed it, but now, half a century had passed, and it was naught but a relic. And it stewed in its contemptuous antiquity. But how could it ever known..
There’s a chair. It sits alone in its scorn. It longs for a master who left it. And yet, it would never have known, that the ashes, and dust of its king remained scorched to its chair, eternally fixated in the frame of his last living moment.
The Dancer
**This is my first post. It is something I wrote in late '09. I believe, on Dec. 18. I haven't fully finished editing, so I would love critiques. I hope someone enjoys my first post, a short story taking a look at the idea of a folie a deux. Or maybe not, you be the judge.
The Dancer
It may now, after such a long, draining institution that I may finally piece together a codex- a memory of which events had taken place over my short life. Again, like the various people before me and the countless thereafter, say there be any left on this plane, the events of my life have allowed me to grow into the man I am today-however peevish-scurrilous-my demeanor may seem. It goes without saying, that I have never had a close relation to my fellow man. Though now, it seems that human companionship is all that I desire. Long ago forgotten, I now hope my humanity may once again return to me, albeit lesser than the average man, but merely enough to walk amongst you.
The rift between me and my human compatriots, had not always been my most prevalent feature. In fact, though the memory is vague and dull, I was once a bright eyed, naive child, whose very innocent nature could beguile the most experienced general. And beguile I did. In the course of my early years, my cunning nature was always noted to be of high quality. It was highly speculated, that I would become a rather famous attorney. 'Twas only natural, that my mother, would want the best for my livelihood, and my father, to inherit his legacy.
A craftsman was he, and an expert at that. A folly of an argument would surface had one doubted his ingenious artistic flavor. He sculpted, from wood, various creations-most of which hinged on the mystic variety. Each figure was meticulously hand crafted, hand painted-elves, dragons, dwarfs, knights, and many other in their like made up his vast repertoire. Of course, my dear friend, you would take note of the fondness at which I speak of his work, and most likely inquire as to which piece was my favorite. Which small, ornate statue would be my most beloved? Now, in my present state, I have nothing but the time that can-that should be spent spinning the tales of my previous love of these toys.
But why had I such a keen love of various children's play things? I hope not to infringe upon your precious time too greatly, my dearest friend, but as I said, rotting in this drab abode, I have only one thing I can do to stave away idleness. And that, is to pen my story to you. And naturally, you would ask me of my favorite sculpture? But now, you will wonder as to why I moved onward to a tangent, and the reason is this, my friend: I have nothing left to ameliorate this stagnant boredom, save this. And instead of allowing myself to grow drab and repetitious like this place, I will now explain my love of toys, and their degenerative effect upon my health.
My father, was an explosive, vile tempered man. I recall now, fondly, my dear friend, of the many dinner ware broken, glasses shattered, and skin broken from his violent outbursts, had only his supper been slightly frigid. It seems, that he had been catered since birth, and born into a man who's virulent temperament knew bounds limitless, even to the Gods themselves. My mother, rest her soul, died when I was a mere lad of eight-it was fever, I believe. Even now, after so many a year passed, I still cannot explain accurately, nor scientifically, the events that proceeded her everlasting rest. My mother, who seemed, to be the only chain binding my father to any form of human civility, was now broken. And I did previously state my father's virulence. I also, my dear friend, had explained that he was a craftsman-artisan. However, his works, seemed to be as twisted and volatile as his rage infused soul. Honestly, I never meant, to elicit his over whelming wrath. I was nothing more than a boy. It became my most prized hypothesis, that his golden whiskey, was the catalyst at which his hatred of me was birthed.
Ah, each night, my dearest sympathizer, he would drink himself into a stupor. In this stupor, his already combustible nature, would amplify itself indefinitely. In his unforgiving rant, he would vent by locking me away-of all places, his work shed. And he would hide me away in his bizarre world, his wonderland-his secret utopia in which he could concoct his horrendous abominations in clandestine darkness. He always faced these "toys" in one, single direction. And that direction, that position, mass me! And each night, I would sit, frozen in the deepest fear, at these horrid machinations. Now, my dear friend, you will be confused by me. Previously, I had stated that the trinkets were of dwarfs and elves, knights and dragons, and the ilk that would follow in the path of a child's fairy tale. Then why is it, my dear friend, that each night, I would be frozen in place, terrified by theses things of a toddler's fantasy?
Well, my dear friend, that too, will require my deepest attention. You probably, by now, think me daft, out of my mind, but I tell you, with the utmost certainty-with the most finite implication my brain could ever comprehend-these crafts were kin to the demons of yore! In fact, had my accursed father's lore been off, these may have very well been the depictions of devils, tricksters, and witches. But, my dear, beloved friend, among these twisted creations of children's stories, the most frightful of all, was the centerfold-the one sculpted sight of beauty in the hideousness.
Yes, among the deformed, misplaced eyes, and the twisted, malformed heads of dwarfs, and the black, oozing wings of angels born to flight-and amongst the elves, whose bodies were contorted and bent into abominable positions, as if their ribs, broken and protruding through their chest cavity-was the one, single strand of perfection. A dancer was she. Beautifully crafted, her skin painted in such an enthralling manner, even now, I fancy this artifice reality. The face, of the softest cream, and the rosy blush, forming her already perfect face, with an immaculate glow of crimson.
And, my so patient of a listener, I can accurately convey to you. that I was soundly enthralled by this sculpture. For years, I would watch her, and she me, with the utmost scrutiny. And alas, as if hypnotized, I had grown increasingly fond of these abominations of my father's creation!-safe to say that he had no longer any genuine interest in his "children" any longer. Oh woe! My coveted medium, had it not been about my sixteenth year of life, when, I had begun to see these horrors breathe life before my very eyes! Each and every misaligned figure, had now taken the place of the humans of which I should have been a part.
Now, my dear friend, it goes without saying, that my father had since halted the trinkets. His last, being the beautiful dancer, whom I shall return to shortly. My father, who had halted his tinkering and sculpting, had since, continually drank himself dizzy. On the eve of my sixteenth birthday, he collapsed rather suddenly. Why? Of course there was a reason behind it, and my dearest, you are probably curious of that fact to no end! But as I had stated beforehand, I have all the time at which I need to communicate my narrative. Therefore, I ask again. for your patience.
By the time of my teenage years, I had become rather engaged to the playthings within my father's previous work shed. And soon, my petulance toward others, and exaltation of my "toys" lead me to completely forsake education, in order to spend complete days, and nights within my parent's shed, speaking fondly with my only true friends-the lovely art. They were foul and ill tempered, as their creator, as my father, and their father, but they carried with them a distinct bearable intoxication, that captured my sense and never let them be. Even today, I completely remember many a conversation with the wooden statues. But of all things, my most beloved, the dancer, would never speak, nor part her lips.
Though being my most beloved piece, she never shared a conversation with me. My dear friend, her silence was...Maddening! She had a distinct, so familiar, and warm, protective air about her. And to further examine, I would try to reach for her on many occasion, but my father-the blowhard, drunkard, must have placed her too high upon a shelf for no matter what I did, she would never be within my reach. But she was always with me, watching me always from above, there, but never intervening. It was sickening! How dare she be apart from me! To guile me into love, then set herself eternally apart from me! Was it my persona? My visage? Or was it, that I was the only flesh creation of my father. Or, my sculptor, rather.
It was then, my dearest friend, that my father had entered the shed in one of his stupors. My curse upon the dancer, had brought about the true adversary to all that was of good intent! He sputtered and spewed his drivel, all the while chugging down his drink in large, unquenchable draughts-and at once, with alacrity, I stood to face him. Alas! My dear friend, I had forgotten to speak of the conversations I had had on frequent basis with my "brothers" and "sisters"! My father, was the subject. Our father. Our creator had never shown any real interest in us. He sculpted us, scorned us, then left us to rot like over ripened fruit. But I could so easily change that factor, and we spoke vivaciously on how to remedy that situation. And now, before me, a man whom I loathed with ever fiber of my existence, stood before me-stumbling, limping, hobbling, but standing all the same. It was then, my dear friend, that I had resolved-we had resolved to eliminate that lowly filth.
How fitting was it, that the instrument of his downfall be the very knife at which he shaved the wood. I must say, implicitly, and with the highest clarity of all, I enjoyed my sin. Like his contorted children, I would pluck his eyes from their sinewy sockets. I would then mantle them onto the same pedestal at which he harbored his creations. But of course, my dear friend, had I been afraid of losing your acquaintance, I would not have disclosed the methodology at which my crime of hatred was committed. But a friend to abandon a friend after such a time as this, is no friend, correct? But no sooner had I extradited the eyes to their resting place upon the mantle, had I discovered something of much disdain.
Following my moribund deed, I had found that, through some smoke and mirror-like trickery, my cherished dancer, had vanished. As if she were mere air, my most prized treasure has disappeared, stolen by some transcendent, gaseous encroachment. Her ephemeral visage, had melted into the tapestry as if some mirage.
And then, my dear friend, I found myself destined to despair. The vile dancing figurine had left me in solitude! She abandoned me amongst the twisted, transfigured abominations - the contorted, volatile, vindictive sculptures! And even today, my most venerable friend, it does not possess me to forgive her! Those ghasts would never allow me to find solace, or sanctity. Not with my atrocities toward the one who created me. I had forged my own nightmare. Like my father, who had forged the tiny horrors, I had sculpted the decay of my own sense of sanity-of morality-of purity. No papal writ, nor divine intervention, would allow me redemption.
So, my dear friend, I left my memories to fire. Each and every sculpture, doll, figurine, would be purged from this world in flame. Though my worldly memories lay before me in and inferno, I could still hear their infernal voices crying out to me. The repulsive screams and cries, that left me a sense of dread and revulsion in my gullet, sounded for what seemed a millennium. And so, the distorted voices, and phantasms, still manage to follow me wherever I may roam. With a whole civilization of chaos in my head. Why would I ever need you? My dear, venerable, patient, most exalted friend, I see the valiant knights, flooding black pestilence. I see the elves twisting their bodies in agony at will! Oh, my father and the dancer. Arm in arm. Like all times before, he hit her-again, and again, and again. Oh my dear friend! I don't need you any longer. My attempts at contact, are so obsolete to me now! I am going with them-the devils! I guess, in reading-I am going with them! I guess in reading, it now just seems like a grand waste of.....
The Dancer
It may now, after such a long, draining institution that I may finally piece together a codex- a memory of which events had taken place over my short life. Again, like the various people before me and the countless thereafter, say there be any left on this plane, the events of my life have allowed me to grow into the man I am today-however peevish-scurrilous-my demeanor may seem. It goes without saying, that I have never had a close relation to my fellow man. Though now, it seems that human companionship is all that I desire. Long ago forgotten, I now hope my humanity may once again return to me, albeit lesser than the average man, but merely enough to walk amongst you.
The rift between me and my human compatriots, had not always been my most prevalent feature. In fact, though the memory is vague and dull, I was once a bright eyed, naive child, whose very innocent nature could beguile the most experienced general. And beguile I did. In the course of my early years, my cunning nature was always noted to be of high quality. It was highly speculated, that I would become a rather famous attorney. 'Twas only natural, that my mother, would want the best for my livelihood, and my father, to inherit his legacy.
A craftsman was he, and an expert at that. A folly of an argument would surface had one doubted his ingenious artistic flavor. He sculpted, from wood, various creations-most of which hinged on the mystic variety. Each figure was meticulously hand crafted, hand painted-elves, dragons, dwarfs, knights, and many other in their like made up his vast repertoire. Of course, my dear friend, you would take note of the fondness at which I speak of his work, and most likely inquire as to which piece was my favorite. Which small, ornate statue would be my most beloved? Now, in my present state, I have nothing but the time that can-that should be spent spinning the tales of my previous love of these toys.
But why had I such a keen love of various children's play things? I hope not to infringe upon your precious time too greatly, my dearest friend, but as I said, rotting in this drab abode, I have only one thing I can do to stave away idleness. And that, is to pen my story to you. And naturally, you would ask me of my favorite sculpture? But now, you will wonder as to why I moved onward to a tangent, and the reason is this, my friend: I have nothing left to ameliorate this stagnant boredom, save this. And instead of allowing myself to grow drab and repetitious like this place, I will now explain my love of toys, and their degenerative effect upon my health.
My father, was an explosive, vile tempered man. I recall now, fondly, my dear friend, of the many dinner ware broken, glasses shattered, and skin broken from his violent outbursts, had only his supper been slightly frigid. It seems, that he had been catered since birth, and born into a man who's virulent temperament knew bounds limitless, even to the Gods themselves. My mother, rest her soul, died when I was a mere lad of eight-it was fever, I believe. Even now, after so many a year passed, I still cannot explain accurately, nor scientifically, the events that proceeded her everlasting rest. My mother, who seemed, to be the only chain binding my father to any form of human civility, was now broken. And I did previously state my father's virulence. I also, my dear friend, had explained that he was a craftsman-artisan. However, his works, seemed to be as twisted and volatile as his rage infused soul. Honestly, I never meant, to elicit his over whelming wrath. I was nothing more than a boy. It became my most prized hypothesis, that his golden whiskey, was the catalyst at which his hatred of me was birthed.
Ah, each night, my dearest sympathizer, he would drink himself into a stupor. In this stupor, his already combustible nature, would amplify itself indefinitely. In his unforgiving rant, he would vent by locking me away-of all places, his work shed. And he would hide me away in his bizarre world, his wonderland-his secret utopia in which he could concoct his horrendous abominations in clandestine darkness. He always faced these "toys" in one, single direction. And that direction, that position, mass me! And each night, I would sit, frozen in the deepest fear, at these horrid machinations. Now, my dear friend, you will be confused by me. Previously, I had stated that the trinkets were of dwarfs and elves, knights and dragons, and the ilk that would follow in the path of a child's fairy tale. Then why is it, my dear friend, that each night, I would be frozen in place, terrified by theses things of a toddler's fantasy?
Well, my dear friend, that too, will require my deepest attention. You probably, by now, think me daft, out of my mind, but I tell you, with the utmost certainty-with the most finite implication my brain could ever comprehend-these crafts were kin to the demons of yore! In fact, had my accursed father's lore been off, these may have very well been the depictions of devils, tricksters, and witches. But, my dear, beloved friend, among these twisted creations of children's stories, the most frightful of all, was the centerfold-the one sculpted sight of beauty in the hideousness.
Yes, among the deformed, misplaced eyes, and the twisted, malformed heads of dwarfs, and the black, oozing wings of angels born to flight-and amongst the elves, whose bodies were contorted and bent into abominable positions, as if their ribs, broken and protruding through their chest cavity-was the one, single strand of perfection. A dancer was she. Beautifully crafted, her skin painted in such an enthralling manner, even now, I fancy this artifice reality. The face, of the softest cream, and the rosy blush, forming her already perfect face, with an immaculate glow of crimson.
And, my so patient of a listener, I can accurately convey to you. that I was soundly enthralled by this sculpture. For years, I would watch her, and she me, with the utmost scrutiny. And alas, as if hypnotized, I had grown increasingly fond of these abominations of my father's creation!-safe to say that he had no longer any genuine interest in his "children" any longer. Oh woe! My coveted medium, had it not been about my sixteenth year of life, when, I had begun to see these horrors breathe life before my very eyes! Each and every misaligned figure, had now taken the place of the humans of which I should have been a part.
Now, my dear friend, it goes without saying, that my father had since halted the trinkets. His last, being the beautiful dancer, whom I shall return to shortly. My father, who had halted his tinkering and sculpting, had since, continually drank himself dizzy. On the eve of my sixteenth birthday, he collapsed rather suddenly. Why? Of course there was a reason behind it, and my dearest, you are probably curious of that fact to no end! But as I had stated beforehand, I have all the time at which I need to communicate my narrative. Therefore, I ask again. for your patience.
By the time of my teenage years, I had become rather engaged to the playthings within my father's previous work shed. And soon, my petulance toward others, and exaltation of my "toys" lead me to completely forsake education, in order to spend complete days, and nights within my parent's shed, speaking fondly with my only true friends-the lovely art. They were foul and ill tempered, as their creator, as my father, and their father, but they carried with them a distinct bearable intoxication, that captured my sense and never let them be. Even today, I completely remember many a conversation with the wooden statues. But of all things, my most beloved, the dancer, would never speak, nor part her lips.
Though being my most beloved piece, she never shared a conversation with me. My dear friend, her silence was...Maddening! She had a distinct, so familiar, and warm, protective air about her. And to further examine, I would try to reach for her on many occasion, but my father-the blowhard, drunkard, must have placed her too high upon a shelf for no matter what I did, she would never be within my reach. But she was always with me, watching me always from above, there, but never intervening. It was sickening! How dare she be apart from me! To guile me into love, then set herself eternally apart from me! Was it my persona? My visage? Or was it, that I was the only flesh creation of my father. Or, my sculptor, rather.
It was then, my dearest friend, that my father had entered the shed in one of his stupors. My curse upon the dancer, had brought about the true adversary to all that was of good intent! He sputtered and spewed his drivel, all the while chugging down his drink in large, unquenchable draughts-and at once, with alacrity, I stood to face him. Alas! My dear friend, I had forgotten to speak of the conversations I had had on frequent basis with my "brothers" and "sisters"! My father, was the subject. Our father. Our creator had never shown any real interest in us. He sculpted us, scorned us, then left us to rot like over ripened fruit. But I could so easily change that factor, and we spoke vivaciously on how to remedy that situation. And now, before me, a man whom I loathed with ever fiber of my existence, stood before me-stumbling, limping, hobbling, but standing all the same. It was then, my dear friend, that I had resolved-we had resolved to eliminate that lowly filth.
How fitting was it, that the instrument of his downfall be the very knife at which he shaved the wood. I must say, implicitly, and with the highest clarity of all, I enjoyed my sin. Like his contorted children, I would pluck his eyes from their sinewy sockets. I would then mantle them onto the same pedestal at which he harbored his creations. But of course, my dear friend, had I been afraid of losing your acquaintance, I would not have disclosed the methodology at which my crime of hatred was committed. But a friend to abandon a friend after such a time as this, is no friend, correct? But no sooner had I extradited the eyes to their resting place upon the mantle, had I discovered something of much disdain.
Following my moribund deed, I had found that, through some smoke and mirror-like trickery, my cherished dancer, had vanished. As if she were mere air, my most prized treasure has disappeared, stolen by some transcendent, gaseous encroachment. Her ephemeral visage, had melted into the tapestry as if some mirage.
And then, my dear friend, I found myself destined to despair. The vile dancing figurine had left me in solitude! She abandoned me amongst the twisted, transfigured abominations - the contorted, volatile, vindictive sculptures! And even today, my most venerable friend, it does not possess me to forgive her! Those ghasts would never allow me to find solace, or sanctity. Not with my atrocities toward the one who created me. I had forged my own nightmare. Like my father, who had forged the tiny horrors, I had sculpted the decay of my own sense of sanity-of morality-of purity. No papal writ, nor divine intervention, would allow me redemption.
So, my dear friend, I left my memories to fire. Each and every sculpture, doll, figurine, would be purged from this world in flame. Though my worldly memories lay before me in and inferno, I could still hear their infernal voices crying out to me. The repulsive screams and cries, that left me a sense of dread and revulsion in my gullet, sounded for what seemed a millennium. And so, the distorted voices, and phantasms, still manage to follow me wherever I may roam. With a whole civilization of chaos in my head. Why would I ever need you? My dear, venerable, patient, most exalted friend, I see the valiant knights, flooding black pestilence. I see the elves twisting their bodies in agony at will! Oh, my father and the dancer. Arm in arm. Like all times before, he hit her-again, and again, and again. Oh my dear friend! I don't need you any longer. My attempts at contact, are so obsolete to me now! I am going with them-the devils! I guess, in reading-I am going with them! I guess in reading, it now just seems like a grand waste of.....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)