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 Dec 2014
Edgar Allan Poe
’Twas noontide of summer,
  And midtime of night,
And stars, in their orbits,
  Shone pale, through the light
Of the brighter, cold moon.
  ’Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
  Her beam on the waves.

  I gazed awhile
  On her cold smile;
Too cold—too cold for me—
  There passed, as a shroud,
  A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
  Proud Evening Star,
  In thy glory afar
And dearer thy beam shall be;
  For joy to my heart
  Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
  And more I admire
  Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.
 Dec 2014
Spencer Dennison
We are monuments.
Every one of us.
I see before me,
men, women and children
and each one of us is a pillar
upon which entire worlds were built.
Too often do I find this innate sense of guilt,
that stems from not becoming
what we should have been.
I've seen opera singers sell their vocal chords
and take up vows of silence.
I've seen warriors give up the art of violence
and become holy men.
I suppose everything will fall in doubt,
now and then.
But we are pillars,
built to hold up things bigger than ourselves.
If any single one of us fails,
our whole house grows weaker.

This is the place we have been given,
to walk upon and live in.
Each one of it's valleys and peaks
and ditches and creeks
has heard the voice that speaks
of humanity.
Our impact upon this land is timeless.
Yet it seems that yesterday's graveyards,
will become today's sandboxes
until they are tomorrow's graveyards.

We are the pillars that hold up the sky,
we will all stand and we will all fall,
without really knowing why,
but the morale of every story
is hidden behind the words
like the forest behind the trees.
I know we all have memories
but these,
these are for you.
Even if all they ever do
is get you through this one day
then that have paved the way
for tomorrow.
That's all you can ask for, really,
is tomorrow.
One day, we will be denied.
 Dec 2014
Spencer Dennison
It's all nameless splendours
and 'return to sender's.
Without the clarity to make sense
and the rarity to be heard,
we are blurred together
like colors on the canvas.
Where I settle in and make my home,
it's insanity and ****** sea foam.
        Straight lines where everything careens
               into smokescreens and blackened eyes.
                       Cruelty in disguise.
                              Lonely demise.
                                Unheard cries
                                   Dark skies.
                                       Lies...
                                          It is here... I make my home.

— The End —