With a spark of power coursing through us you smile and say now we can make a difference i smile and turn to you and say. Make a difference... Yes I think I shall.. I will give them something to fear. To hate, you on the other hand... Follow your heart. Bring them hope, unite them against me.. Then when the world has finally come to realize that they are better off whole... Slay me.. Our work shall be complete and the sun will shine on a brighter tomorrow."

"And when I am gone, and the world is finally free from my shadow, the people will look back on this moment, this spark of chaos, as the catalyst for their rebirth. They will remember the fear, the uncertainty, and the darkness. But they will also remember the hope, the resilience, and the unity that followed.

"You will be the beacon of light in the darkness, the guiding star that leads them through the storm. And I will be the storm itself, the tempest that drives them to seek shelter in each other's arms.

"Together, we will create a world that is stronger, more compassionate, and more just. A world where the differences that once divided us will be celebrated, and the commonalities that unite us will be cherished.

"And when the final blow is struck, and my life's work is undone, I will smile in death, knowing that I have played my part in shaping a brighter future. The world will be reborn, and I will be the ashes from which it rises.

"So, let us begin. Let us dance in the darkness, and let the light of hope guide us through. For in the end, it is not the darkness that will define us, but the light that we create in the face of it."

Frames of suffering and agony,
A canvas of pain, a soul's symphony.
Each brushstroke a scream, each color a cry,
A masterpiece of torment, born to deny.

The artist's hands, they tremble and shake,
As they wield the pen, the instrument that makes,
The lines of despair, the curves of pain,
A portrait of anguish, forever to remain.

The colors bleed, the ink seeps deep,
A reflection of the heart that does creep,
In dark recesses, where shadows play,
The demons of the mind hold sway.

The frames of suffering, they hold tight,
The agony that cannot be erased from sight,
A reminder of the wounds that won't heal,
A testament to the pain that's real.

Yet, in the midst of this dark despair,
A glimmer of hope, a light that's rare,
A chance to confront, to face the pain,
To find a way out, to break the chain.

The frames of suffering, they may remain,
But perhaps, just perhaps, there's a way to sustain,
The weight of the world, the crushing load,
And find a way to heal, to let the heart unfold.

Prophecy spoke of such a day… but we were fools..fools who thought we were safe from fate, hiding under the sun. We thought that by living in the light, we could avoid the shadows that lurked within our own hearts. But the darkness has a way of finding its way, no matter how hard we try to hide.

The sun beat down on our village, casting long shadows across the dusty streets. We had lived in peace for so long, we had begun to forget the old stories, the prophecies that spoke of a time when the very fabric of our world would be torn apart.

I remember the day the strangers arrived, their faces shrouded in hooded cloaks, their eyes gleaming with an otherworldly intensity. They came on horseback, their mounts' hooves kicking up clouds of dust as they rode into the village square.

At first, we thought they were just travelers, seeking shelter and rest. But as they dismounted, their movements seemed almost... deliberate. Calculated. As if they were waiting for something, or someone.

The village elder, a wise and kind man named Arin, approached them cautiously. "What brings you to our village?" he asked, his voice firm but polite.

One of the strangers stepped forward, his eyes locking onto Arin's. "We have come for the boy," he said, his voice low and menacing. "The one born with the mark of the prophecy."

I felt a shiver run down my spine as I realized who they were talking about. The boy they spoke of was just a child, no more than ten winters old. He was a quiet, reserved child, always keeping to himself.

But as I looked into the eyes of the strangers, I knew that we were not safe. The prophecy had spoken of a day when the boy would be sought, when the very fate of our world would hang in the balance.

And now, it seemed, that day had finally arrived.

You're beautiful, incredible, creative, and no matter how long I've known you I wish I could know more about you.

Your eyes are like shattered glass, reflecting the beauty and the pain,
A kaleidoscope of emotions, forever etched in my brain.
Your touch is like a summer breeze, warm and gentle as a sigh,
But it's the storm that follows that I fear, the destruction that you bring to my life.

You're a work of art, a masterpiece, a symphony of contradictions,
A dance of light and darkness, where the beauty and the pain are inseparable conditions.
Your words are like a whispered secret, a promise of forever and always,
But it's the silence that follows that I crave, the moments when it's just us, lost in the haze.

I'm drawn to the fire that burns within you, the creative spark that sets my soul alight,
A flame that flickers with every heartbeat, a beacon in the dark of night.
You're a force of nature, unstoppable and wild,
A beauty that's both fierce and fragile, a wonder that I've yet to fully understand or reconcile.

God, I wish I could know more about you, to unravel the mystery that you are,
To follow the threads of your heart and soul, and see where they lead me, near or far.
To learn the language of your silence, to hear the whispers of your heart,
To be the safe haven where you can be yourself, and never be apart.

But for now, I'll take the fragments of you that I can see,
And try to piece together the puzzle of your beauty and your complexity.
I'll take the shards of your heart, and the whispers of your soul,
And try to love you for who you are, in all your beautiful, destructive, creative whole.

I trudged through the muddy trenches, my boots sinking into the mire with every step. It was my 40th day on the front lines, and the relentless drumbeat of war had taken its toll. The constant bombardment, the screams of the wounded, the stench of death – it all blended together into a maddening cacophony.

But it was the boots that really drove me mad. Boots, boots, boots, boots – the sound echoed in my mind like a mantra. Every step, every march, every endless day was a reminder that I was trapped in this living hell.

I tried to focus on the faces around me – the lads I'd grown up with, the ones I'd laughed with, the ones I'd seen die. But even their faces blurred together, replaced by the incessant march of boots.

My sergeant, a grizzled old veteran, noticed my distraction. "Keep your wits about you, lad!" he barked, as he kicked me forward. "We've got a long way to go yet!"

I nodded, but my mind was elsewhere. I thought of my family, my friends, my old life – all distant memories now. The only reality was the mud, the blood, and the boots.

As night fell, the march continued. Boots, boots, boots, boots – the sound grew louder, more insistent. I felt my grip on sanity begin to slip. Try – try – try – try – to think of something different, I told myself. But it was no use. The boots had taken over my mind.

The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and smoke as we pushed forward, our boots sinking into the muddy earth. The sounds of war surrounded us - the staccato burst of machine guns, the screams of the wounded, and the cries of the dying.

But amidst the chaos, I started to notice a different sound. A sound that sent shivers down my spine. The sound of boots marching away. Not our boots, but theirs. The enemy's.

At first, I thought it was just my imagination playing tricks on me. But as the days passed, the sound grew louder, more distinct. It was as if the ghosts of the enemy soldiers we'd killed were marching away, their boots echoing through the desolate landscape.

I tried to shake off the feeling, focusing on the task at hand. But the sound persisted, haunting me like a specter. I started to wonder if I was losing my mind, if the trauma of war had finally caught up with me.

One of my comrades, a grizzled old veteran, noticed my distraction. "What's wrong, lad?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

I hesitated, unsure of how to explain the strange sound that haunted me. "I hear boots," I said finally. "The enemy's boots. Marching away."

The old veteran looked at me with a curious expression. "I hear it too," he said. "It's the sound of the dead, lad. The ones we've killed. They're marching away, leaving us to fight another day."

I stared at him, shocked. "You hear it too?" I repeated.

He nodded. "Aye, lad. It's a sound that'll haunt you for the rest of your days. But don't worry, it's just a reminder of what we've done. What we've seen."

I nodded, feeling a sense of unease settle over me. The sound of the boots continued to echo through my mind, a haunting reminder of the horrors of war.

In that moment, I knew I was doomed. The war would consume me, body and soul. And the boots – oh, the boots – would march on forever, a relentless reminder of the madness that had taken hold of my mind.
As the days blurred together, the boots grew louder, more insistent. I couldn't escape the sound, no matter how hard I tried. It was as if the boots had taken on a life of their own, marching up and down, up and down, inside my mind.

I started to see things. Boots everywhere. Boots on the trees, boots on the ground, boots floating in the air. I'd try to reach out and touch them, but they'd vanish, leaving me grasping at nothing.

The lads started to notice a change in me. I'd zone out in the middle of conversations, staring off into space as the boots marched on. They'd try to snap me out of it, but I'd just shake my head, unable to explain what was happening.

One night, I woke up to the sound of boots marching in my ears. I sat up, convinced that someone was walking around the trenches, but there was no one there. The boots grew louder, more insistent, until I was screaming, trying to block out the sound.

The sergeant found me, curled up in a ball, my hands over my ears. "What's wrong, lad?" he asked, shaking me.

I looked up at him, my eyes wild. "The boots," I whispered. "They won't stop."

He looked at me, concern etched on his face. "You need to get out of here," he said. "You're not well."

But it was too late. The boots had taken over my mind. I was marching, marching, marching, with no destination in sight

I eventually lost track of time. Days blended into weeks, weeks into months. I'd find myself in strange places, with no memory of how I got there. The boots were always with me, marching, marching, marching.

One day, I stumbled into a field hospital. The doctors looked at me, shocked, as I marched back and forth, back and forth, my boots echoing off the walls.

"What's your name?" one of them asked, trying to grab my arm.

I looked at him, my eyes vacant, and only a whisper left my lips "Boots my name is boots"

They sedated me, locked me in a straitjacket, and threw me into a padded cell. But even there, the boots kept marching, marching, marching, driving me deeper into madness.

Ah, Madness! She's a wild and unpredictable force, a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts that can sweep you up in her chaotic dance. Her eyes burn with a fierce intensity, flashing between bright moments of clarity and dark pools of despair. Her words tumble out in a torrent, sometimes sweet and melodic, other times sharp and discordant. She moves with a jerky, unhinged grace, as if her body is pulled by a thousand conflicting strings. Madness is a shapeshifter, transforming from a soft whisper to a deafening roar, always keeping you guessing. Embrace her, and she'll take you on a journey through the depths of the human soul. But beware, for Madness can be a cruel companion, leading you down paths that twist and turn, testing your sanity at every step.