I have been here so many times,
Experienced many falls and many primes.
I am merely a visitor, a player, in this game,
Here for a while before I shed my face and name.

But I play this game, and I do not play alone.
I know of people from the Aether; my true home.
They had come with me, but first I remember none,
Of who they are in this game, and where have they come and gone.

But our hearts will always bring us back to,
Each other's embrace, those words are true.
A wise man said that love is forever.
Past this life and beyond, we've been together.

When we find each other, we would rejoice,
For our union is beyond a mortal body's choice.
But I feel sorrow for the day of my soul's return,
To this place, and forget them for one more turn.

My dear family of soul and heart,
Please hear me now before we part.
I love you all, my words are too true.
I'm glad we've united. me and you.

I hope one day, when our lessons are done,
When we drop this video game to finally have fun.
I wish to explore infinity and beyond,
With you, until stars come and gone.

Thank you, my soul family...

I've been on this journey for far too long.
My vim and vigour long since gone.
So many trials conquered, so many tests,
yet my soul only craves for one final rest.

A world so familiar to a soul so old,
A world full of wonders, a world full of woes.
I dance the twisted dance that many called life,
A dance of joy, yet also a dance of strife.

I've danced the steps many, many times;
This world seems nothing new to me.
Yet I write these words with shifting rhymes,
asking when the end of said dance could be.

My body is young, but my soul is old;
weariness weighs down my fresh bones,
As I write down the story that is being told,
Wondering when I can go home.

When the moon rises and the sun gives way,
The shadows creep forth as She enters the fray.
The strike of her spear will end your day;
The Morrighan's ravens will take you away.

She who darkens the battlefield skies;
She who listens to the soldiers' cries.
She flies over the fields on black wings,
Vigilant of those ready to hear how Death sings.

But She is protective and nurturing, should She choose,
Just as easily as She decides who will win or lose.
Glory and defeat, life and death,
She is The Morrighan, praise under your breath.

When the moon rises and the sun gives way,
The shadows creep forth as She enters the fray.
The strike of her spear will end your day;
The Morrighan's ravens will take you away.

I am a lonely dog, so aged and worn,
Barks long gone and an ear torn.
Chained to a post, I have always been here,
to face all alone my sorrow and fear.

Respite from the loneliness may come by,
When strangers from near and far come and say hi.
They may notice this old pooch and say,
"Poor dog. I'll give some company and stay."

They would pat my head and rub my side,
And give me some treats when I open my mouth wide.
But alas, they must eventually bid farewell,
And leave me to return to my lonely hell.

Though worn and old, this old dog dreams,
That one day my chains will be broken at the seams;
By strangers who would not just leave me like a gnome,
By strangers, so kind and warm, to take me home.

To take me away from the post and the chain,
Into a house that can shelter me from the rain.
To comfort and play with me as times fly,
To miss and mourn me in the day that I die.

Alas, such dreams may never be,
But hope always stays with me.
Hope that I will be free from here,
That I will no longer have sorrow and fear...

Here I stand, away from all eyes
Away from the smell of smog, away from concrete and metal.
Here I kneel, before a tree so tall and valorous.
Though it speaks and sees naught, its wisdom is vast beyond imagination.
Here it stands before me, its leaves so green shield me from from the wrathful sun.
Its tasteful fruit give me strength, the air it purifies fills me with life.

"Hail, my child. Welcome back.
What brings you all the way out here? Away from those you call friends and family?"

The tree speaks? No. From all around, this voice.
A voice so kind and caring. A voice forgotten by many, but a few will slowly remember and hear.
I come here to flee. From those I falsely call my kin.
They are not my kin. My heart tells me so, and I listen dearly to my heart.
I come here to flee from voices, to seek silence.
But your voice... I am drawn to.

"My dear child, so lost and alone.
You seek an attention so many others fail to provide.
Your heart has lead you here, where one would say attention is nonexistence.
One would be wrong to say such a thing.
Here, you are under my care."

The Earth mother.
I humbly kneel before you, for you are all around.
You are the light that illuminates the land, and you are the dark that hides the beasts.
You are the life weaved into the air, and you are the death weaved into the claws.
You are the trees that I kneel before, and you are the age that will one day take them down.

"You need not kneel before me, my child.
I do not ask for your worship.
I may be growth and age, but I do not wish to be remembered.
My work is being done, and my children thrive through life and death.
That is how it shall be."

If you do not let me kneel for worship, then let me kneel for gratitude.
In times like this, I think of you.
Of the food and water you provide, of the air you allow me to breathe.
Of the beautiful animals you care for, and the comforting tranquility your realm provides.

"My dear child, so lost and alone,
Know that while you're here, you are alone no more.
Let my vines hold you gently.
Let my embrace calm and heal you.
Can you feel the rain that seeps through the leaves?
Can you hear the streams flow through the grove?
Can you hear the woodlings sing their various songs?"

Yes... Yes I can...
I'll just lay here and close my eyes,
in your gentle cradle of vines and roots...
Here, I can rest and have peace of mind,
knowing that you will forever protect me and provide.
Here, away from from false family and friends,
But here, within your gentle, yet firm embrace.
I am not alone...
I am not alone...

An old tale tells of a world where creativity and beauty is but a forgotten word.

Trees and birds are only stories that were quickly forgotten.

The people live in the same houses, and wear the same clothes.

There are no colours but black and white.

It is a world where creativity and beauty is dead... Save for one young boy.

With his gifted hands, he created.

Sculptors of strange and wonderful creatures and architectures one could only see in their wildest dreams.

Stories and tales that could make even the saddest clowns laugh and the coldest soldiers cry.

Pictures and murals that displayed the colours of the rainbows that had long since stopped shining.

Beautiful as his creations were, he was shunned by his family and friends.

They saw him as mentally disturbed because he created things that he cannot see. Written stories that he cannot hear.

Beautiful as his creations were, they were hastily discarded by the townspeople;

Thrown into a river that flows through town, into a chasm without a bottom.

Shunned by his kin and his creations discarded,

One day, the boy could take no more.

He fled from his house, indistinguishable from the other buildings around,

And he cast himself into the river, intending to join the tales and images his hand wove into existence.

Down with the raging water, and into the great darkness in the center of the earth. A darkness that even the grey sun could not illuminate.

Darkness holds mysteries, and this one is one that none knows.

None but the boy.

When he woke up, he found himself cradled in a woman's arms.

But this woman had a face of a goat. On her head is a strange piece of clothing called a hat, and her eyes were a beautiful crimson red.

She only had three fingers on her fluffy, snow white hands.

She was dressed in a soft robe that shines a wonderful violet from the glowing crystals around.

"The Great Creator," She spoke. "Why have you fallen down here, far below the grey world above?"

"The grey world is blind," said the boy. "Blind to how different, how grand, the world would be if there's colour and form just like ages past. I wished to join my creations in Oblivion."

"You are not in Oblivion, child," said the woman. "But you are where your creations reside. Look around."

The boy looks around the Underground. The land below the earth was not dead and desolate, but rather filled with life.

Lives like the goat woman.

A man with the lower body of a horse,

A faery who carries his head in his hand,

And a bird clad in a sightless mask, for its gaze could turn anyone to stone.

And they all sported such vibrant colours, wore such magnificent clothing and lived in strange-looking abodes.

All too beautiful for the boy to believe.

He looked around some more to see more familiar things. One of his sculptures, placed in the middle of a bed of mushrooms, turned into a shrine.

He listened to two bug children tell a story he wrote; a story that once brought a soldier to tears.

He saw scribbles on the buildings that looked like recreations of his own drawings, but they never came close to the grandness of the original.

All of them were credited to a being called 'The Great Creator from Above.'

"Those close to you may shun you, child," said the goat woman. "But someone, somewhere, loves you for who you are."

She smiles to him, a sight so warm the boy had to shed a tear.

"Don't change for them...

Stay as you are for us."