ab interi per gravitas in libro

a surface broken, and i close my iyes to open them, had to sort htis like a mind from exhaustion, needing something new and something old to even write this far, there is a book on the floor, surrounding it is the world and the light, and they should be cowering in fear, this place where this bonded familiar faces slight of shadowz, in that my acceptance cannot be to that, take the king to the land of kings and they will tell the truth, the ears empty and that is such a waste of instult, lamented post of tasted bloodlust, where the underworld rises, and the caverns give an orchestra for the night hail and terrible thunder, a company of theives, separated by my war to them, is that a sky for to light it afire, is that a river, for to send it as a world sized serpant, is that a mountain, for to that be it an army of statues and shadow magic, the longer the wind blew the more the pages turned, and i wrote song to the sea and the dawns across the universe couldn't stop me from that which i seek, the heart a nexus, shattered for the darkness that the nights they seek, the learned men, the cursed witches, the dragon generals and the theives of new dreams, all along the endless shore surrounding the infinite labyrinth, and the means to the riddle confounding threnody and assimilation of me into a breathing failed hypocrisy as if i soughtthe gargoyles and the scarecrows to bathe in the lava, i drink the marrow of death and sing to the gallows again, the sunset tide, the arch to the shore, little tithes of genocidal monstrosity for the master, of importance, a feather falls and none think of the strands bound together to the quill, the world spins to the whims of the last feather that i see, as the ages rage across time to alacrity and tones of sunlight, the book cannot be closed as easily finished, the words have become monsters and escaped, and you are one of them, so many riddles to choose as many books have and yet there are none, dragon flying with book in jaw, enjawwed, that this life is better screamed the demon cheif and the back pages burn the book flames, i stare at the words like the endless story or the endless lawbooks found littering time for no good apparent reason, like this riddle of words spilling across the page, as if i would know why a book in a battlefield or meadow would speak to the eternal existence of nature, and us along within in, fleeting memories like passive existence no more than hopeful projections of adequacy and treatments of tremors and headaches filling the new memories of witnesses, memoriez, witnessez, as here to there, i have been defeated by the best, or one of them, and you are not the best, semblance of words, to write this final curse, spiraling aether fantasy attributed nowhere insolvent and it starts there, he had damaged the astral plane that this point, that wall of many and some colors, that lake of light of all sounds and colors, a surface of time between itself and, i canot focus, i watche the words continue, i shall exit the echosphere, into the sunset rift, as if angry itself and from the dissonant endless beginnings of liquid time and breathable magic, that cannot destroy the book, not across the span of stories, nor across the different charactrs on the attle, thereof, the heavy one tried to claim the book, but the war took it from the heavy one, the light one tried to claim it and the dark ness hit it until the light of a new age, i tried taking myself toward the pages and my mind spinning in the wind, , how am i here, in this battlefiledld, concerning not my attackers nor i to them, the storm of all moments i cannot tell the day and night, i am the light untouched by sleep, uncaught by hands, a reflective mission traveling, i am here over the book and i am sickened seeing the characters unleashed by the darkest of magic and the sinisterest of scribes at the least of the history, i am a far cry as the crow flies from the book, this place is deth, and the dragon takes it from me, i watch it drop a blank page among all of its blank pages, every life in existence taking a piece o fthe page, i and others when some began creating the words of the evil magics , we made a canvasse and map to find the book, what binds this story and the tome, i forget what reality tempers the heart and soul, the desires and memories, all gone, i seek the one who damaged the force of nature itself, without waling heavily not a blade of grass bends beneath its feet, the demon king has writen words and the ink fades and dissapears, and the book feeds the demon, and the acursed magic is now known by the demon arkan, we will have the book, you all cannot take the book together and never by your pitiful souls, i find pleasure in this world of nine, i find an empty book crafted wonderful in due time, i make gold from air and earth and fire and water, this began as something else and i wrote that i would not control what i wrote and with a poisonous soul be taking itno and destoy the holy seal, the book became the vortex, a web of energies began twisting like knots in a fishing net until every threat broke, the monsters of unwritten hooror escaping, i'm no closer than when i started, why do you want the book, your eulogy and the names of the damned

ews - dark mirror

it was cold and warmer yet another night, i closed my eyes and began, thru the merciless awakening where the summer trees meet the first autumn rain, and earth spills over the ground to stones with scratchings like welcome, avast aprized afore, never fear of writing like the leaves, without ability to anger for the hunger and the noise, would it break for time of asking or the dead memories escape // tied together,of witch there are many weather found and nevermore, fields of eternal afterlife beyond the boundaries of memory or the skies that press against the skin from days that haven't risen as you fall into the stars, not unlike the unforgiven as a colony of mars, forgive the altruist inquisition or the terror of the river of time, the riveris faster at the end for the sand, but there are the waves gentle and disharmonius would my muscles rips to pieces to break from the depth i don't know all to catch the crying mountain or the drowning feildspring where the ligting chases fire into the bitterest of colds, even the ice know when to break or sink to forests far below where each drop of heaven's vapor coincides with ebb and flow, ifthe sand does all the thinking be the firstot me you show,

I rest on hatred of but not of canvas nor paint, thosetimes when the mind is blind between targets of direction because the blur and focus dance together, aware of situations like this time, i have seen, do i shift from thot to thot while you waitfor ice to throne, would you carry time before you down the river from your bones, the silver wasthe passage, not to lose awareness like a thred of fate i near the proxy and request another soul, i'mnot sure of what I do but this place cannot be home, yet a hole in the ground where the interned can stone their own, where ideas are but a mercy and in fairness, i pause to prove a point, this is what you meant by madness and worthless tho is bothers me, i lash to write the curse without a word, the ink spills as a window breaks, all a burrowing talon of the beast who counts against not hunting until toying with the quary, that this story could be stoped a condensation falsely trims the edges and the pain this hunt alone, should the mountain come to water, an avalance caused by predation unearthing

I, the dreamer

to close my eyes and write about dreaming, that which I was, therefore an exploration it will be, that thru the expert opinion and freeform demands it is that I regret to've seen myself, a disappointing reflection of others and my amnesia as a host, I tear out my heart for those things, the warmth of the sun, sleeping thru existential soundwaves of the divine thought echoing and radiating and consuming purity of wavelength from the center of the universe, when i think that thre are endless count of alternate identical universes i bide my time in this omniverse and seek the negatives of each that we forgoe ourselves to mention of mirrors and the deepest of hearts, I mind my soul, alone as I must, but I know there are not my own, this castigating game of , a secret passage to a place I've once been, the ability to go around what is not there and the sunlight washes the mountain and the rain and river wash down it, each drop an ocean, each ocean a wall that the sand cannot cross, each time this sane and vibrant history seems to fit, when the sync of hearts all beat like an engine forward, my thoughts misplace me, there are no problems here, this place is not the resting hole of the universe, all is well, up is down and day is night, the mountains grow, the sea recedes beneath my feet and the distant-stretching shore vast and mighty pushes into the ocean, the land into the stars, the air into my mind again i respect the ancients, and as I let them guide me, even their weakest lets you kill each other like the tools as toys of a butcher's child, a game of chance, a sport of chess, what miracles come by playing both sides, to wit I mayn't watch your foolish game, for i am a reflection of myself and must blind into my own I/eyes, radiant expression, blind compulsion, sympathy for the structure of our molecules, combined within the history and thought a new faces in the storms of blood like fog and mysteries in the haze of storms while lightning washes and fire falls from the skies, to've said what you are then i dare against you, the ground moves beneth my feet, detrimental, discontiguous, where by burden met are sympathies unkown for times unsown and I stitch the night over you all to the horison as the stars spin over you are crestfallen in delight and unbridled rage without spite, have I spent the last for the first thought, and yet I open my eyes to this.