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Literature Text
Why do the waves stop?
Why do they spare anything?
They stop at the borders,
The twilight of the land.
They at the In Between are still and retreat.
Why should the beach stop the
Collapse?
Wherefore shore,
Wherefore tude?
How has the land endured before OCean
And the Green grown, or the land died brown?
How can the Mountains stand it?
Silent Old men, they, who shudder
And remember the Deluge and the fury
Of a High King.
Who has the voice to command it?
Who has the voice to overpower mighty Ocean?
And who, who of all men, can outroar the Ocean?
The High King is sitting
In his hill city,
Ruling by decrees of his own tongue
The invincible waves and indomitable tides.
Men speak of floods,
But miss the flood that never happened to them,
They arrow that was never loosed.
Why do they spare anything?
They stop at the borders,
The twilight of the land.
They at the In Between are still and retreat.
Why should the beach stop the
Collapse?
Wherefore shore,
Wherefore tude?
How has the land endured before OCean
And the Green grown, or the land died brown?
How can the Mountains stand it?
Silent Old men, they, who shudder
And remember the Deluge and the fury
Of a High King.
Who has the voice to command it?
Who has the voice to overpower mighty Ocean?
And who, who of all men, can outroar the Ocean?
The High King is sitting
In his hill city,
Ruling by decrees of his own tongue
The invincible waves and indomitable tides.
Men speak of floods,
But miss the flood that never happened to them,
They arrow that was never loosed.
Literature
In your arms
I hope there will come a day when you don’t let me leave.
And not as as a ‘second round’ deal but you asked me to stay the night
The dream I had was set as such:
You kissed me goodnight and walked me to the car.
And just before you walked inside, you held your hand out
And asked me to stay.
I stayed, I stayed what felt like days.
We barely woke up to greet the morning
because your eyes were the most important sunrise.
I let you fill my cracks with gold so that I could see that my scars could still be beautiful
I welcomed you to pushing me down
Just so you could have
Literature
History Burning
the trick is
to make all believe they inheret a
world all their own
remember to erase the words of the
deceased until
death never existed
and put corpses unburied
into neat containers
under every floor
to lock them up tight is
critical;
panic is the plague in this age
and is it any wonder they forget
with puppet parents
who burn books at christmas?
Literature
Excision
Excision
This is the only way to cure it. Would you trust someone who’s never been? Now listen: you need to get yourself a rope. Coarse preferably. Tie it as close as you can to the wound. Make it tight enough to starve it of its origin. Isolate the damage. Let the abrasion as you move distract its cause for you. Let it twist and spark and scrape away the rust into a clean flame. Take the flame and douse your fingertips as deep as you can, then deeper every time. Work your way up to the knuckle. If it scalds, good. Let it erase the infected nest from the forefront of your mind. The problem is self-constructed; unnatural, not organic on
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Believe it or not, this poem was inspired in a fit of sadness while listening to Alesana. Yes, Emo music and Genesis. That's how life should be, I suppose. Muwhahaha
Anyhow, though you're not really expected to get it, the line about roaring at the ocean is actually referring to Lord Byron and his Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Specifically, a part near the very end where he's sort of signing off, and has this one last, long, triumphant roar at the ocean which I've always loved. "Oh Ocean, How I have loved thee!" You want something that's the spirit of Good, there 'tis. Go forth and find. I PROMISE you that you will not go away from it emptyhanded at all. If only because you will leave inspired to go sailing or climb something.
Men see the bad and forget the days, long and filled with fuit, that they were given. They drop their food and lose it, and blame the heavens.
Anyhow, though you're not really expected to get it, the line about roaring at the ocean is actually referring to Lord Byron and his Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Specifically, a part near the very end where he's sort of signing off, and has this one last, long, triumphant roar at the ocean which I've always loved. "Oh Ocean, How I have loved thee!" You want something that's the spirit of Good, there 'tis. Go forth and find. I PROMISE you that you will not go away from it emptyhanded at all. If only because you will leave inspired to go sailing or climb something.
Men see the bad and forget the days, long and filled with fuit, that they were given. They drop their food and lose it, and blame the heavens.
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