Gerithel

A lily was trampled in the night: Where is the Muse, whose hand is sworn to those who lose, whose souls are worn? When will dreamers at once awake, and quit sleeping for dreaming's sake? Who bears the sword, for use in war against the lore we dreamers make? Be well aware, colourful air surrounds the hair we swallowed deep of dog asleep. of bleating sheep, of a jester without a fair. Different nights, between the lights, angels flight and demon's delight make quite a sight for those with eyes. Frightened mice with a fight their size. Arise, arise! Defy the lies that sound so sweet in lover's eyes. Defeat completes, cycles repe

Deep into the eaves of retreating trees, Skirting scars of hurt and recent violence Beneath fallen leaves piled up to my knees I see wars campaigned in utter silence. Recall when there was once a sun? I cannot be the only one. Now under streetlamps, awash in their glow, To war we skitter, in ironclad rows Cold carbon critters that set sail through snows The winds are bitter and pale indigos. And here in tapering heavens, our last stand in vain The old main, embalmed and ashen, is bourne down the lane. The old, their eyes glisten, faded and stricken with pain, The young merely listen, hear the birds and they christen, a decade th

I do, in deed. Alexander Ah. Yes. That sweet burn becomes success. And, in turn, we learn that guilt of duress. Sing to me, now with separate key, augmented fifths. Show forthwith, that we are not machines. Some light, the fire, clashes moonlight. Our desires, are dire: This blight we might call sire. With some haste, we go to our birth place. We grow, quid pro quo, and, from our homes , are chased. Unto certain unmaking do we race. For, in breathing, there is a simple system. And, to disturb said system is to taste The chaste sweetness of blood upon bosom. It is in saying "we are not machines" That we must pause to dr

Does the sun ever shine? Gerithel When will the tragedy of nocturne fade, As I ever slayed whence it bade? 'Lunar decay' the hounds had bayed, Decay awaits its servant made. Will the piercing morn courageously rise, As it once dyed CYANIDE the skies? Arrive and rise morn resound the dove's cries, Arise so we may ever idolize. The doves have died. The hounds have died. The tears have dried. No more sunrise. But, lo! A tear of sun upon the sky's brow. And another vow. A drop of dawn endowed, the sky cries now. It sobs tears of hope and fear and of dearest endear. You are here, my dawn.

And all the beasts of the world knelt. Gerithel Her name was Brynja and she came from the frost beyond the frost, from the frozen realm beyond any others: Edenfall. She was known to one as Brynja; to others, she was alienated. Perfection alienates the imperfect, and let it be widely known. I know now that the whitest of whites might shine alone for, though she was clad in the purest of whites in this drifty snow-field, she alone took my eyes and trembled my hands. Sable hair sprang forth, blood-like against the creamy perfection of her face, from beneath her fur-lined hood. The colors in her cheeks were like rubies, and, above