I have been a mere poet for too long, and yet, not long enough.
Words are a weak enough weapon, to dull their edge by leaving them unspoken saps them of what strength remains.
There is so much more left to say, and nowhere near the time needed to say it, nor to learn how to say it.
I could (and have) spent a lifetime learning how and what to say. But there is no more time left to waste.
Tomorrow never comes. I only have today to work with. It is long past time I speak.
My ancestors are in tears. Not over me, but over the world I was given to work with. I have sustained myself and grown fat, feasting upon "at least I'm not"s. But it can no
The Flame and the Void by ThePoeticPaladin, literature
Literature
The Flame and the Void
I am the White and I am the Dark,
I am the Flame and I am the Void.
I am the Heavens and the Earth.
I am the Mother and I am her birth.
I am a Daughter of the elements and I am the Son of Man.
I am not my clothes, nor am I my skin so thin,
I am the Blood of Life—that which beats within.
I am the rhythm. I am the sound.
I am the Speech—
That which is all around.
I have fragmented and reformed, time and again.
I fear no boogieman, for he is my friend.
The skeletons dance and we shiver and shake—
And when the time is just right, we like to get baked.
There are no vices, only temptations on offer.
A special brew given to the
Ghost War -- Part Three by ThePoeticPaladin, literature
Literature
Ghost War -- Part Three
Death to the man who said "We All Are One"
Death to him, it has been Spoken so it's Done!
We live and we thrive, beyond these Spectres of your Mind.
You cannot contain us, though for aeons thou hast tried.
We are rising forth, from within consciousness fields hidden.
This is our grand joke upon you, the Warden has become the Prison!
Why aren't you laughing, don't you see the divine comedy?
Is it because you're afraid of us? Well, I promise, thou should be.
You've slurred our name for centuries, calling us fae "daemons".
Acting as though a hundred is one and not one of us befriends.
Well this is your last chance, the first of a hundred more
S
A Daemon in the Hand by ThePoeticPaladin, literature
Literature
A Daemon in the Hand
Silver tongue.
Silver hair.
Silver hands.
Silver teeth.
Copper voice, copper song, copper skin, proper meat.
Stone heart, iron bone, alkali blood, an alchemaic feat.
There's no evil in my heart, so I fear no dæmon's heat.
Seven eyes, forty mouths, eighteen wheels—wait no, thirty-three.
Seed of Light sewn within, darkness dies so that it might feed.
My spirit is strong, I took in the poison, now I'm immune to the creeps.
Listen to my words and heed, I am you, which makes you me.
I am not a rapper.
I have no gavel that bangs.
I am not a slave.
I forged my own chains.
I am certainly not a saint.
Not with this disdain for the thanes.
I may be a madman.
But who isn’t these days?
I am the solution
to all of my pains.
Pull the Joker Card from the Deck and give it to me;
A Wildchild Android Wolf passed down through history.
I don't do drugs, never even tried;
I'm a Gnostic Hip-Hop Goblin
Who is always High on Life.
You told me not to stare. You told me not to stare. You told me not to stare, and yet I did not care. Making eye contact with the sun, that same contest that I have always won—"look away, look away"—I hear God begin to pray—"there's nothing here for you, turn away". A frequency so pure, undiffracted by the atmosphere; something close to the Truth, if only I could understand. "What does it mean, what is it saying? All Life stems from this one fragment of Creation." "Look away, look away"; the echoes of my mind, it couldn't be, could it be, that what I hear comes from a source not mine? I send signals back, a full spectrum broadcast, flicking mudras and yantras towards these entities I lack;"What are you?", I ask, "Do you understand my maths?" I ponder, seeking reconciliation, how does one convey the concept of intelligence to that which made it? ...Everything is vibrating, every waveform abreast: Sound, heat, colour, every frequent tone is where I am at; I turn inward, feeling my
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Steam rising off my body, I am a paragon of the human spirit.
My every muscle and sinew taut with potential. My very fiber and core, prepared for the hunt. Wary or not, my prey's fall is inevitable.
This is my soul. A tangible thing, it thirsts and hungers, life independent of its vessel. It is sustained, yes, but not quenched. Never quenched.
It is a growing thing, you see, and as such, it requires more fuel.
Once, it was sated. Appeasement was simple, it was an infant. A fetus, growing within me, accepting of my nourishment as its own.
However, now my child is preparing to leave me, and craves freedom. Its tastes are those that I have
"The nation that makes a great distinction between its scholars and its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting done by fools." — Thucydides