Annuvian Mist

Merlin: In the bloom the first of summer's nights flowers and moonlight between the shadows, my vision bending into the shadows thru the darknesses of sight against seeing and fright against fleeing as this horrible place grew cemetery quiet, the dim glow of violets and din flow of violence in the breaths of wolves and men and monstrous breed between them not to be unseen them, their eyes stare thru me shining smiles and desires of tooth and claw in the law of the moonlit forest, how the fates adoreth the forgotten lore and taste of fear in the fair air restored as I saw them. 

I so took myself running, like to chase me up a tree I ran the only trail, knowing it a track that two sides would drive me toward as I look forward never back, the trees closer to sounds of my feet closer than imagined as the feet steps pound like my heart natural and normal, the fear of every echo unnatural and abnormal, where monsters too slow the trees growing closer couldn't stand denser were they to grow around me and before they all had found me the men throwing axes hitting tree trunks and breaking branches, with the brush the wolves course faster thru the narrowing escape and with my heartbeat behind me and the emotions starting to blind me I discovered my powers of night and brightness, like daylight shadows likeness did the spark of thunder did my skin glow and gather shadows with my veins did show like patterns in shades of sanity with my sight connected to the four winds of forgotten skies both ancient and forever. 

My mind brought me to the sky and I could see the world of night with a crown of sunrise and the cost of time turned vanity into thought as my sight of battle was regained, only to see them enraged and disdained and breaking over themselves with hunger, ready lunging hunched and plunging into laughter mad the same, as my heart devoted to the sky a storm grew into a cloud of daylight and the battlefields of afterlife where swords clash and strike made a ceiling of cloud and lightning rain like thunder and frightening fire as my hands fell to the ground and in the consumption of sound the blue covered brightness burned and turned the ground into a thought of a dream in my command with only one demand, that this power of mind connected to the ends of time would burn my enemies asunder. 

As the electricity poured back into the earth and the fires burned all without worth, two undred canine foes were reduced to twenty, the largest of them, the biting breakers of bones in their armors of stone the werewolves of the forgotten world staring at my eyes like suns of a darker world, my grasp of power the fire in my heart, the hold of the fog, and the bones in my fists. Echoes of light, fangs of the fight with waves of fire and blows of power there is tooth and blood and bone, where the standing trees stand stillest as to pardon my skills and cordon the quills and hackles, leaping to tackle my quiet steps and heavy heels and their axes and knives fly, and the living trees my brothers cut and falling pushed aside to take my life, in sight of failure where after only one breath of respite one of them bites me on the arm and I strike him with my knife in the eye, the werewolf laughs and tears my arm under and throws me thudding into the earth. 

The pack surrounds watching me grab my bootknives and with arms like snakes and hammers I begin dancing and slashing and swallowing them like graves, ten and one are circled as I scream the white fire of the fallen star and one is flung, the other ten their armor fractured, as they all watch me throw the first blade I take my chance of time after a breath and throw the other into another and we watch two men dirge of death, quick I am I take the blades from the fallen and they of broken armor begin regroup, and the largest point their spears and throw and unable to count them one barely cuts my arm as another pierces my leg. 

Never a pain too soon to remember rage burns the last of my magic and the wooden lance falls as a torch to the ground, the old werewolves grunt appeased by a worthy warrior of their time, as my wound seals in the vines of magic veins barely holding me together despite the wicked and the weather having come for me this eve, I throw my knife and it cuts the cheek of the werewolf alpha, and he cuts his other cheek to match it, I waste my time thinking about the past that lead to a moment that I cut my other arm defiantly and with the blood of werewolves reliantly accursed like the histories aversed of menageries arcane alchemy contained the curse of wolf and man and gave me power and there I open my smile and grasp and dropped my knife and fought them to death for my life with my bare hands, which then below the stars I ate the hearts of wolves and in the sky looked for the beginning of time... 

...Sorry I'm late.

Nick: It's fine. I came from there, you go that way, and I'll go yours, let's see if we can't shake things up. 

Merlin: What chased you?

Nick: Ghouls. Yours?

Merlin: Werewolves.

Nick: ...erhhh, graces, whatever.

Merlin: Your idea. 

Nick: Yeah, no, luck. 

/...

Wonderstand, I

They say you're supposed to vote against what you're not, which oddly means to not vote for them. Uknowat, what was I working on...

This was a battle of the strange inferiority complex, the lower-middle class of a system design to prevent classes with classism, to prevent disparity with desperate measures, there'd been this notion of scared and powerless people made faceless by systemic tribalism, and other pop-culture terms ignored by pop-up icons, flourishing in my own insanity with spates of clarity, learning the ways of cats to lick my wounds and pace around the weak and wary, unlike the days between them. And sown on their sleeves hearts of gold, and lost to the streets the covenesses and desperate masses growing younger in the doorways stilln't dry with ochre arches and subtle frames, when will the insanity that I bring come down with a metaphor to close and taste the sweating blood of revolutions without the tears turned to snowflakes and none the wiser careful what they wish for, with the door closing on the last opportunity to wear the crown of stolen gold instead of the bricks in the streets, would they carry their status, would they dress reflecting the stratosphere the mission clear to be numbers counted on a string. I'd worried about writing, that the good can be pushed too far, as it would seem the precursor to some manifesto in mockery to my legacy, whatever that means to you who'd punch mirrors and shout at mountains for being one the other, the staunch ironies of words in parades of tragic misconception and hateful intentions below the heads on mute that more compute with the aching broken fingers of sheet music passing over the notes of time and on that line the misery of trickster potions and blood soaked oceans, some terrible exibition of dictionaries instead of need, when by the weeds of highways after the world has begun the second day of a movie's prophecy you walk or pick the painted roses before the sunset closes and brought is this world to you, that between the books before I read them the misery of insanity impure by the conjectures and poor constructions of the words of wisdom that ask themselves what they think and tell others what they said in place of Jinn in their way, with the moral of the day to slay our giants in our way and only having the one that remains, the insane and insipid thinkers of thoughts that never occur, where wings would feel the skies, where time would fill the eyes, where intimacies would fill the lies, yet this tells too soon to talk about the frustrations and intimidations that conformists will never know, that anarchists will never throw, that communists will never grow, and capitalists will never show, and many more into the undertow of what essays began to write. Yes, that the worst of fates in sunken continents decreed by bards and baileys and forks in roads divergent only one from fates uknown in fiction and in life only sung, in hopes my own commoner theory they are the cliche henchman that is somehow the hero with reactions of zeros for zeros, in random risking random, like work is family and family is work, so much the aristocrats bored of powerless hearts become bloodthirsty for benevolence in a single unidentifiable form, as once called fanatics, as once called sporadic, and that was - last - year not for nothing. I saw statues attacked in the center of homelessness seas, sacred fires to scare out quarry of holy hunters by none other than bounty jumpers, and heads of state appropriate my finest vintage of literary insanity, albeit temporary, albeit a sky-shattering lie, to urge and provoke and stoke and save the charlattane army of anarchists, in the sup with the devil a meal only paired with the equivocations of a programmatic and often insensed ferile whose mind so sterile it lost it's grey matter only to line the curves on the slippery slopes, and I tell you i've never seen so much dishonor like the staple air I still breathe in the waves over my eyes, a counterpart conception of musical deception saved for the static harmonic ring that protects the planet as they virally seed the world assumably despised by contrarian meditations high order and short form, you have given them free seats to your teleprompter show having given them rotten fruit to throw, it was never a good idea to write about something as it happens and show my cards in case they become another story made from theories of games and the same insane manifest destiny of the idiots who'd cast the first stone at the titans instead of swaddles and coddles of decades of stories made to hold libraries on the ground among all the other stories, the social nature of your medium allows you to flip to the end, and the reprisal of satisfaction of human interaction is heaven-sent, as you can look around you, and do not see them in other thoughts of echoes of thought of echoes, only teaching them to march and never where to go, letting them do nothing like an idea in your grasp with each truth breathe, a chessboard in a storm. 

Lotta I's. 

"Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind; And that which governs me to go about." William Shakespeare

 

2456-0206

Triggered Happy

These are the lives that change the times, I'm sure that's how it goes or something. It could really be a better place if they'd quit surfacing for righteous indignation, the tripped triggered crowd, who's cups can't hold water to runneth over, and poetic gasps for attention ignore the purpose of events, the cause of life, and the index of miseration and experience to climb on others sinking with screams that wouldn't fill the sails, to break the cycle, to lace the cipher, to climb the walls of judgement like barriers and border towns, where the virtues of vanity were not buried and shamed by shamers and blamed by blamers, when honesty empowered by truth is their wealth kept among them with warriors and writers and various fires to turn their hard-earned fortune into the buried treasures now troves of weapons and leathers in case even the defense of dying nations and the subterfuge-invasion without invitation denies them even that, like black cats and ladders we bring you black masks and adders where tenets and tradition in tatters makes the ink never dry wherewithal the endless eye watches them sell their sincerity and swell their prosperity of brag and humble, which by the time you read this the words will have changed and their goals rearranged like pestilence pained to ceremony and objection for the tired arguments find reinvigorated resurrection without the fear of battle dinning or to know which side is winning while the burdened retreat to the stories of Celeste in wretched wreaking wroth wrought wary warning wardens of the sunless setting drum, where the braying breaking bloodshed bleats better bearing of the boisterous sum, and wisdom comes like raindrops of the circumscribing flood. 

Positive consumption, enlightened exertion, optimistic world, and big mood. 

"We are always in a hurry to be happy...; for when we have suffered a long time, we have great difficulty in believing in good fortune." Alexandre Dumas