D'rachanya

...the many styles when in the wild with forests kept within, like handfuls of diamond eyes given to a tree for passage into the forest prison, magicians and nymphs searching for treasure to bribe their way out, in unity and silence to not disturb the leaves using coordinating gestures, sassy flower seekers that cover the sleeping ones before they rest as much as vines of thorns that grow beneath the surface to protect the trees, but to find that all this time the wealth of darkness in pockets of oil make fire all but complete, and waving hands in ceremony fashion with the passion of orchestrated delight, spraying sparkling yellow sulphur as the path begins alight, streams of red and orange and ashen smoke billow arching from the ground, like the wings of butterflies in metamorphosis, my new form has now been found, I am angered wind sill burning as it waves against the breeze, give me rage and hate unturning as I lash against the trees, I am dragon in standing proudly ever loudly as the skies begin to cry, give me vapor never waver as the ground begins to die, cower as the dark in darkness gathers as I tell, arching over to devour all the kindling in this hell, wings of stone from ash and bones now breathe soot and veins of lava seething from my scales, I am hallowed unrequited without war from head to tail, break your throwing axes against my eyes and horns of bone unbroken, take this token of my bowing in delight and your next fail, all the allies now surrounding pushed beyond the pale, carve your living trees into arrows and throw your enemies at my heart, I shall eat the smiths and forges from the very start, a scream of volcano song and spray of fire-water, a path from my talons to my target burning friend and enemy to the grave, for your screams I will drag myself thru the remnants of the forest to coat my leather in ashy delight, to smell the meat of the great beasts and soon to be my treats, crawling my talons are anchors that hammer into soil, trapped would be to run in darkness between my furnace and my wings sweeping and raking rows with wing tips and mounds where my wings of armor span, so that my talons claw before me as I smash all those who stand, to the edge of your prison I slither like a ship of shadow sea, in the wake, my scaly scorching and a deathly smelling breeze, golden egg buried beneath these prisons of mere warlocks and witches infestation, beneath the black night sun, must hatch the other one...

Wiwan Cw’o

2019-10-18 / Wiwan Cw’o

I take the bones from out my hand and give them to the sea
A pleasing song of aftermath where waves roll unto me
1,001 spiders weave a tomb around the setting sun
Then the lava creatures bring me gifts of gold and grapes
In the rivers of opinion are all whispers made of slaves

The list of lines are serpentine and coil above the trees
And make new homes above the stones the raptors of the seeds
Where falling glass and quicksand are delicate reprieve
This circumstance of rivers’ glance is draped across our eyes
The flickering of tonguelike knives and sticks at once was paved

Re-circumstance the fire plants and moons beneath the soil
The army ants and prominence with heads below the foil
In parallel the mirrors are the times that echoes chase
With any stave and heartbeat are the soldiers on the ground
Who can’t behave reflect the caves the spectrum spins around

Odva

Odva, Faith

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A field beneath too many stars

In seeing no differences in their glow

Against the tall grass against the moon

Low and in the cold horizon of night

Blackened ashes beneath the coals

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These stories go endless into the sky

Darkly irreverent space consumes thought

Another long and horrible description

The shaman speaks volumes of knowledge

Where tails and teeth are best described

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Now the stars are falling without paucity

Where suns are spies and knowledge light

Storms of fervent clouds cascading skies

Apart and growing worlds of thunder

Interrupting the voice echoes insane

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Stars rain against abandoned fires

Breaking imagination with parody remorse

Until stories have no answers becoming

Seas of lost waves of interpretations

Desperate sensations and emotions wild

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Waves to shore and falling moons

In the mystery of substance

Surface questions never deep

All the pictures post and prospect

Shouting endings that won't keep

/\

Ablaut Logic

Do you believe in your cause?
Would shouting at you change your mind?
Then why would shouting at them change their mind?

Poetry in motion, not in motion, inactive. It could be the emotionally lost, an emotional sea, an emotional hook, and we seek ourselves outwards. If there were any truth in this, it would be that we must be the new humans of this planet, and the next. Some are the ribald and ire of the season of reasons, and we adults can tell you two of many unknown things, with age comes focus not forgiveness, and the eyes of the mind seek what we've always sought, hear what we've always heard, and as you can tell from this, all things are test of time.

So I will sing sang sung with this tongue, and in the ancient tongues I might have spake to speak of spoken words, in timeless ways it sees, it is seeing, and now we see, of when and where you'll need ask and pray tell as has been what begs pardon. I don't know who I am anymore, but not born yesterday. These times of children raising the next adults, and infants crying to be kings, we have had made possible opportunity, in the ways that must not be, our regrets make us characters in a sad time, our lives make us none of your business. I speak, I spake, I spoke.

It's true in some ways that I study the way of words, gathering the anecdotes of antidotes and wars, all for not as pages rot, coyly to describe the way my inner dialogue prays to demigods, only to say the names of emotions to the souls met along the roads of this world when seen from the moon like veins of an eye forever staring at the sun. Fittingly, in ways, how some would like to see it split and need and want two halves of one mind. The active, the events, the results, or the series, all of these are aspects of humanity, and in some cases human is what you are and not what you're doing -- to this we hope you study or train or work.

There is a magic I have seen, where time stops, where all elements of humanity can be observed to perfectly observe, in ways to perceive the elements of society without the hypocrisy and barbarism and stupidity of censorship, to see aspects of life as easy as poets throw words for ideas. When we adults are emotional, more so than every, the chorus of minds with words best silent, the extent at the moment inescapable of better questions, you so I ask this.

Do you believe in your effect?
Would shooting at you make you want to surrender?
Then why would shooting at them end war that kills humans?

Æh'lla Temarh

The Nightmirror - Æh'lla Temarh

This accidental second place in race against the seconds, a power that can't be bought, wasted describing a light that makes the sun seem cold. With shadows echoing and darkness sending dreams in war with stars, but echo collapsed the many darknesses and one unto the next the quintessential doors of perception fell into frame, collapsing stratos structure pentagram the architecture of five archways became illumination and gateway, the Æh'lla Temarh.

1-Whispering Flowers
Three moons of red and white and red the likes of shadows soft and high above the moonlight paths, staring at morose verdant grass, the blades without sway holding the dew while threatening the afterglow. Shining glitter drops across field fallow and edge of frost where the circles of moons soon followed each other than passers by the tide of dark ocean air distant from the valley, where the tally of footsteps are forty six and two, and two, and two…the crickets from the thickets or the easy breeze or the snap of twig and thatching from the woods stares back at me. The whispers behind me and everywhere I see, the thunder in the distance, the sleeping leaves on guarding trees, intent to listen where bright darkness takes curiosity there is a song of petals in imagination that tells as much as rain, but at the sudden loss of fear completely lost in trust, certain everything is nothing wide awake I fall asleep in the road beneath my feet. Kneeling as if into a bed, in my head a need and indeed I’m clawing at the dry soil as if falling from a dune, and in soon of sundry sunder comes thunder of men and beast.

2-The Silent Moon

My feet are bound to a rope and a tarp that drags beneath me dragging, crags and gravel grinding, against my skull the stones reminding little choice but pain and waking, and their gentle time are taking, twenty less than men and more than wolf, whose sight in passing see me laughing at my trappings only a web of dreams can make. So they take to stopping thusly and in my eyes inspect and push my face to see my teeth, my fear is confusion their amusement is my status less than pet. They sit like dogs and haunches quick to rest on their spots in hunches bothered not, to such their leader rises on four pawed limbs not quite standing making whispery demands at the moon in sounds like “draeull, lsevi, aeihlluei, iq ahofvi ea,” but the moment returned the thoughts of the moon, mind of madness wars of sadness as the colors moved the world, shelves of hillside slide like rivers of spectral diamonds while thoughts from marrow self-consume, a soured nepenthe, followed by the first moment of sanity described in panic as tragedy or the screaming hells full of snakes of trees. Again the werewolf speaks at the lunar deities, “el minur, roraed, ihrhueit’d, oaurr’iq’ae,” one of the moons seems to be different and fall asleep while the waves of moonlight crashing against my mind, and the beast turns to his pack, now standing tallest “arr’um” he yells, “Reimnae,” and another of the larger rises to marching orders, “ejh, Esova,” to superior, and to Reimnae the order was given, “arr’omni,” which is order to hit me on my head.

3-Ship of Shadow
I pretend to sleep as my eyes open, dragging along a black river with fighters readying for a fight, I can’t tell the rise and set of moons if closer day or growing night, and now sounds of waves from an ocean of darkness, moonlight in the echoes of contrast where glimmering shadows and glowing sea floor insulate the world from the passing stormclouds. It’s not an ocean but a swamp with tide with vines thinning at the shore and in the distance giant spines of beasts that came before as mountains waiting for the rise of the black sun. In the vast swamp of rivers a small boat of black steel and obsidian with sails of black raven and red raptor feathers and I am sold to sailors three.


4-The Voyager’s Birch
This river runs slow and the vines crawl looking for ground and ghouls to nourish the vast wasteland of moss and black roses. One of the vines grows toward the ship, as water turns red aside the vine a sailor shoots an arrow a single time, missing completely the vine almost whips to coil around it, hoping it would pull it free it crushes to consume, and in the arrow a single seed to grow a birch that thrives on the cursed water. The white bark cracks as it grows new leaves and moves almost as fast as if were living to fight the vines from beneath the moss filled sea. We watch as it grows and stops the vine, but from behind another holds its feet forcing roots to dig deep for water to grow and making it slow, as it is torn in two as if the swamp was looking inside it, only to discard it. Another vine, another seeded arrow, again.

5-The Edge of the Snake
The sky grows light and shines thru the clouds as they drag boat onto yellow sand, but dark clouds recover control and day becomes shade, the sand is soft and light beneath my feet as they make we walk across it. Ahead and around are jagged edges of broken paper lanterns, farther not lanterns but husk, farther still not husk but molted snakeskins. We come to the ruins of an ancient city of stones and hallways whose canvassed windows have turned to dust and wooden roofs decay to kindling, filled with curious holes at walls and floors where snakes come to observe only to be hunted by others. Sight thru window of bones whole families now dining skeletons with plates of bones and many floors with long empty grain sacks. They throw me at the feet of the crown serpent king, a patient squinting man with scales like fingernails from hand to head as armor of white tiles.

6-Dying in the Souls
The serpent king whispers, “aerraekhielhoan,” and the few tiny serpents scatter, in their stead two guards with smaller beaded younger scales bring a prisoner out, cutting her restrains and unmasking her, tossing her at them they all run from the desert castle without regret. I stare at the reptilian king, unblinking, tilted stare and jilted guards who leave us to wonder willingly who the villain is in each other’s story, his fork tongue tastes the air and fear makes me run, colliding in corridors at each turn, taking a torch that doesn’t burn to swing as he finds me. Clubbing him does little and none and he holds out glass sphere, a yellow eye much larger than his. I run and he catches me with clawed hands, like thorns stabbing tearing my arm and chest and throws me to the ground to rest. What could be a smile and this laughing reptilian foe rolls the eye to me and shreiks “dinnra-aenne'ssiuhj”

I wake in the throne of the moon in the forgotten city holding the eye, tasting the air, checking my scales for flaws, and hear the wailing battlecry of a cat echo over the ruins of stone. A tale that swaggers counting methods of attack as it breathes before pouncing as I dodge before running back. Across the discarded sands, thru the bleeding swamps over the heart of darkness, into the forest of werewolves. I dash at the ornate obsidian mirror in the road, in a new world the pentatonic gate closes and breaks into five meaningless objects, but I am still a new beast with magic eye in a world of humans who are to have seen their first.


/6ch /mjbanks