Distorted recursive fragmentation of the poem “Meandering Wastes” as recovered by deep-digital scanner. Precise alignment of letters and words unverifiable, the equipment used has been known to produce results with a range of non-conformant orientations.
Artefact reproduced with permission from G.E.D, 3145.
Almost illegible fragment, unlikely to have been written by the original author:
meandering
waste space
we pen
again
An alternative arrangement, containing an extra “s”, is suggested:
meandering wastes space
(and yet)* we pen again
This is also the point at which the “First Perversion” is believed to have been created, with several scholars drawing the conclusion that “we pen” was not a reference to the act of writing, but actually a reference to a literal (unspecified) “weapon”.
inevitable trees
with inevitable leaves
drop inevitable seeds
sprouting
Let me tell you a story,
About a castle in the sky,
Steep-spired,
Ash-stained,
Bleak and imposing,
The ruined Stormfort stands,
Perched precariously,
On a sundered, floating, island of rock,
Above the churning, lightning-laced tumult.
I fly into space like a shooting star,
Moving at the speed of light,
In a shiny red car,
And out-of-space looms a man with a hat and a cane,
He speaks to me calmly without revealing his name:
So you’re travelling at the speed of light in a shiny red car,
Even then I’m afraid you won’t get very far,
For space is a lot bigger than we first thought, you see?
And it’s an even greater distance between the stars and ME.
I respond:
How are you keeping up?
How are you even here?
I thought at the speed of light there’d be nobody near?
And he smiles,
Though his smile seems more of a leer,
And his motivations seem suddenly even less clear.
We’re stained glass,
Letting light pass,
To mirror the truth,
Shining out of our hearts,
We’re all parts,
Of that image,
All pieces together,
And when the sunlight shines through us,
It helps us remember.
Hand by hand these bricks were laid,
Brick by brick this manor made,
Children played upon the glade,
Until this place was torn asunder,
Smashed apart by raging thunder,
The God of the People Beyond These Walls,
Had risen up and towered tall,
The children, servants ran away,
But flame and lightning blocked their way,
And thus there trapped by decadence,
The God ignored their penitence,
Clothes, flesh, bones all burnt away,
Scorched brick tower left to decay,
Ages passed and vines consumed,
The ruins of that manor tomb,
Travellers come here treading slowly,
Trying to imagine what transpired,
(The “Official Record”, you see, is undecided)
But they will never know,
They will never know.
They will never know.
They will never know.
Rumbling, pouring, cascading streams of time,
Roaring, rushing, unseen by eyes of mine,
So do all these crashing dreams align,
With stars and streams and foamy brine,
That roar and crash like waves, unseen,
On beaches distant and serene,
Across the gulf of starry night,
Those streams that roar, cascade, alight.
Third recursion:
beyond wastes
writer sets pace
scratching pen
line starts again
Fourth recursion:
beyond wastes
writer pace
scratching pen
starts again
Fifth recursion:
wastes
pace
pen
again
