A final poem.
Of you and me,
Of what we were
And could not be,
My heart is heavy
My soul is free.

I love you,
I miss you,
The End.

On metal wings the creature glides,
With metal feet it treads the skies.
Its joints sing out into the night,
Their velvet pads like shredded lies.
The starlight gleams upon its helm,
The silver turning warm yellow
Waves break over its shifting plate,
Deep sorrow softened by its glow.
Branches snap as it drops down,
Stories told about its strength.
Knuckles made of gleaming gold
Sleep reveals their dreamy length.
Cats look up into the sky,
As the automaton passes them by.

Much has happened, as this night
Cursed blessings spread a blight
O'er the fields of wheat and grain
Like an acrid, poisoned rain.
Through the darkness they all swoop
Causing plants to die and droop
Then zoom up into the sky
Away and to the moon they fly.

When I was but a babe unborn,
Still cradled in my mother's womb,
A fiend crept up to me one morn
And spoke with frost of icy tomb,
"What, pray, do you desire to hate
Because of how it chills you so?
What thing do you from now debate
To be so cruel as to forgo?
This fear will follow you through life
And plague you like a shadow deep;
Its pain will slice you like a knife
And leave you with but naught to keep."
I thought a time, and all the while
I turned from its unyielding stare,
And then at last I went the mile
As I felt strong the fiend's despair:
"I think, perhaps, the horrid thing
That will so chill me to the bone,
The thing that I will always fear,
Will be, only, to be alone."

From my tower I look down, as I do near every night,
And I see what I am left to live with by the dying light.
I can see my dear companions, playing music bittersweet,
And I still can taste the nectar of the flowers that I eat.
There is much to feel around me, like the smooth stone of my floor,
And I smell the kitchen spices fragrant just beyond my door.
My friends' songs float up to me upon the warm and sultry breeze,
And I hear their cries of brooding, weaving through the weeping trees.
Even as I long to join them, I turn back to do my work,
For I know I cannot go there, and my duties I'll not shirk.
I hath made this world of longing when I peeked beyond the veil;
Although I may hope for freedom, my creation is a jail.

I heard a knock while I, quite bored,
Had read a rather spooky book.
The door then of its own accord
Swung open, and I had to look.
Beyond it I saw raging skies,
Awash with ****** reddish hues
And there, a thing with piercing eyes
Stared right at me. I was confused
And asked it, "Who and what are you?
What do you want? Where are you from?
Dear sir, you're looking rather blue.
Come in," I said, "you seem quite glum."
The entity came through my door
And hovered there, and said one thing;
A thing that shook me to my core:
"I've come here from the Weeping Spring."

Hitherrealm is here and there,
The Highrealm past the sky,
The Deeprealm underneath us all,
The Sixtus are nearby.

The Farrealm is a nightmare,
The Lowrealm hates the heights,
The Midrealm is the world mundane,
The Sixtus dim the lights.

The Crossrealm makes connections,
The Underrealm survived,
The Overrealm is greatest,
The Sixtus have arrived.

I'm funny!
I'm weird!
I'm happy!
I'm feared!
I'm so many things, but none so much as
Just another old human, a bit of a spaz
Who simply has got a few things to keep
Safely inside, locked away, within, deep.
I never could tell if those who act scared
Really feared me, or loved me, or even just cared.
I wonder sometimes what it's like to be you,
A normal old person, so boring a crew.

Hard to say. You got a friend?
If you do, you know it, then.
If you don't, I hate to say,
Happiness has gone away.
Hard to live and hard to love,
Hard to hear the One Above,
Hard to take a playful shove,
When you don't have a friend.
Talk to others, not the same,
Think that this is such a shame,
Suddenly your life seems tame,
When you don't have a friend.
"Tell me how your day went, dear."
From your eye, a single tear,
Then, your voice in tones of drear,
"Today I lost a friend."
Do you feel the way I do?
Just 'cause I don't listen to
What you think that I should do
Doesn't mean I can't.
Think before you leave behind
All the things we've worked to find
And what both our minds combined
Learned to give and grant.
The stories, and the legends told,
The lore, the characters of old,
The many things that they foretold
Will never come to be.
And why? Because you just won't speak
Because you see me as a freak
'Cause you won't turn the other cheek—
You just won't talk to me.

Beautiful disrepair,
Flowing from the world like blood,
Natural yet somehow undesirable.
Why do we deny this?
There is a pattern, even in its disorder,
For it is simply what should happen.
Nothing can stop it, but it can be harnessed;
We simply put it away, as humans do
When they don't understand.

In a faraway land, without too much wealth,
Where the tall mountains howl and the thieves use no stealth,
Where the rivers all mourn and the fish lack strong health,
There was once a young prince of the landfill.
He desperately wished for a life without toil,
He wanted a life without mold in the soil,
He wanted a way to escape all the spoil,
He wanted to leave from this foul swill.
But, sadly for him, there was no way to win,
For he had to remain there on duty;
There was only he (besides, of course, me)
The guard dog was this junkyard's beauty.

Peaceful noontime on Saturdays,
Teasing my sisters about their bad grammar,
Petting the cats as they snuck downstairs,
Building with Bionicles,
Talking to my friends.
My grandmas coming over,
My indescribably weird dreams,
Having my own bedroom,
Creating my world of stories,
Huddled in my dim room of treasures.

I haven't changed much.

A warm though lonely shore,
The tide reflects a violet sheen;
The scent of lilacs fills the air,
Reminding me of where I've been.
The gardens that my mother grew,
With orchids, plums, and periwinkles;
I take the scent and feel the mauve
In my head, I hear purple twinkles.
I taste the distant, sad yet merry
Hue of peaceful, calm mulberry;
I look upon the island divine,
And remember the sweet amaranthine.

I lay beneath an oak,
Around me, winter's white;
I remain as just a cinder
And a gong bash hails my plight.
I'm surrounded by the leaves,
And I hear the cold wind whistle;
Near the deadly dragon draws
Shadow on the moon like a missile.
I can hear the crash of thunder,
I feel delicate, clean lace;
And I wander to the dance
That glows under the clock's face.
The winter may be white,
But to my eyes it's grey;
I sigh throughout the festival
Taking place this winter's day.

If I were a poem, my words would be my form;
I'd lilt and twirl, I'd sift and swirl
I'd be above the norm.

If I were a poem, my syllables would ring;
I'd thunder and shout, I'd laugh and cry out
I'd be like a poem you sing.

If I were a poem, my sounds would be odd;
I'd change and hold, I'd peak and fold
Pronunciation would be broad.

If I were a poem, my meaning would be long;
I'd love and cry, I'd hate and die
I'd be a touching song.

The Witching Hour approaches on swift and silent feet,
Its chilling chorus fills the air with chimes that drain all heat.
The ash-polluted blackened ice spreads through the wooded graves
And skeletons rise from below, none spared their empty gaze.
Cold January beckons me like scent of dry decay
And I grin widely, savoring the winter's bleak dismay.
A widespread fearful aura full of wrongness fills the night,
And hides me as I flicker, making nightmares with delight.

An ancient tree stands gnarled and withered,
Below it is its age-old roots;
A story great it has delivered
Of newfound power, stomping boots.
If it could speak, this tree would tell
A tale of old, the aeon's race;
In depths of earth, as deep as hell
Sits a long-forgotten grandiose place.
But close behind this tree that speaks
There lurks a psychometric's dream;
A second gnarled and hunchbacked tree
That still remembers human's scheme.
The tales of old are not yet lost,
For here we see this ancient tome
Who, whether it knows it or not,
Remembers what's beneath the loam.

I wake to loudly grinding gears,
Pounding pistons in my ears,
Silent whispers in my head;
God only knows how I'm not dead.
I rise and stand on tired feet,
My body burned by steaming heat;
I smell the smoke and blazing fire,
The danger's near and just as dire.
I turn to run as workers yell,
It's close behind me, I can tell.
I see them at a geared machine;
It sparks, I taste its metal keen.
I look around the place I'm in,
The noise and light begins to spin;
And as I rise above the din,
I see, I feel, the World Within.