beyond meandering wastes
writer sets frenzied pace
scratching words fountain pen
each line ends starts again
beyond meandering wastes
writer sets frenzied pace
scratching words fountain pen
each line ends starts again
beyond the meandering wastes
writer sets a frenzied pace
scratching words fountain pen
each line ends it starts again
far beyond the meandering wastes
a writer sets a frenzied pace
scratching words with fountain pen
as each line ends it starts again
I am a drawing,
Of a photograph,
Of a man,
Inside a star,
Inside a cloud,
Surrounded by chaos,
Inside a picture frame,
Floating in space.
I think,
I feel,
What thing is this?
It is an honour–
To exist?
And yet I wonder…
Wander home,
From this place to another roam,
And still I try to understand:
What is this?
Why do we even bother?
Because there always is another,
To replace us,
Always is,
Another,
Another,
Will exist,
And they will also,
Writhe and fight,
And have those moments of delight,
And then like fire burning low,
Depart,
For life is but a fading glow,
Why,
Why,
Why?
Perhaps we’ll die,
Before the answer dare reply,
Why,
Why,
Why?
Let demons try,
To distract,
To turn my eye.
Why,
Why,
Why?
A pointless question.
To live apart from “why” is the lesson,
Lessen,
Worry less,
Not more,
The world will turn again I’m sure,
And chances are you’ll still be here,
In spite of all those churning fears,
And up against it all you’ll rise,
Like flames rekindled,
Sparks-in-eyes,
Why,
Why,
Why..?
To try.
Feed, Fuel, Forge, Fire;
Shape a sword from your desire.
Whet the blade and make it sharp;
Enough to pierce a demon’s heart.
I know a place not far from here,
In fact: you’ll find it’s rather near.
Strip away the reality you see,
And you’ll see the reality that belongs to me.
Before,
Before,
I think I saw,
Something I’ve never seen–
Before.
Before,
I saw a thing,
(Before)
That couldn’t possibly have been.
Sing us of the stone risings,
Like tooth buttresses of forgotten kings,
Much larger than man but with smaller souls,
Souls now wasted stain the land.
Giant kings once ruled and killed,
The mountains are their graves,
Rising cold to bleak grey sky,
While beneath them Craedus stalks its prey.
Centre of it stands a tower,
Unexceptional, not special, not this one,
But atop that spindly, darkened spire,
A red light flickers, always does.
The Craedus lives here, Ulterkaad,
No purpose served, no quest is won,
This is an empty, hollow place,
A howling place that’s nearly done.
A storm rages softly, soothing end-song,
The Craedus walks on, slowly now,
No sun lights passage, cold earth, cold souls,
The Ulterkaad lives on and on.
Now Craedus comes to mound of stone,
Once encouraging, human home,
It sifts through rubble, seeking nothing,
It finds a box that’s itsalone.
And in that box sits mounds of paper,
A pen with never-ending ink,
The Craedus inspects discovery, wondering,
About its words it stops to think.
Then tentative, strokes slow at first,
Craedus tells us of it first,
Of who it is, or who it could be,
And its forsaken, cursed course.
Course winding through the Ulterkaad,
Forgotten land where evil ruled,
And evil captured, so remained,
Locked in tower, trapped by good.
But such great evil touches much,
And poison yet remains,
The Ulterkaad grew poisoned such,
And poisoned, Ulterkaad remains.
The Craedus then is doomed to watch,
To warn nobody of escape,
To prowl and walk this haunted wasteland,
To live a hopeless, tortured fate.
For centuries enduring such,
Its old life is forgotten now,
There is no way to break the curse,
Unless
