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Madeline Clow Aug 2016
In a time before people, at the dawn of man kind.
"They" were brewing us, our bodies and mind.

A  sprinkle of wit and a pinch of good luck.
"Please pass down the emotion muck".

Some of "they" were good at what they were to do.
Some of them less exact, careless in making our stew.

Going to the extremes was a favorite of a few.
And that's why Some of us drown in goo.

A pinch of zest and a bucketful of sorrow, and an
Annoying tendency to always want to borrow.

"My favorite recipe is: charisma, good looks and toxic waste"
They usually attract the goodhearted that are keen to make haste"

"And my favorite are the ones always pursuing what isn't meant to be"
"The recipe calls for 2 tablespoons of zest I think i'll put in three"

But theirs a limited amount of each ingredient in the workshop
So some will have to do with less of this or that.
Madeline Clow Aug 2016
We have forgotten entire worlds and only remember those forever present
We have worked very hard and ventured very far and forgotten a lot of it
Many of the memories only surface when they're splashed with relevance
We found entire kingdoms but they melted away in the blink of an eye
We know many things and many stories that we cannot remember at all
We're forgetting epiphany's that we are having, and our found loved ones
Many many valuable memories are trapped in the corner of our eyes
And when we cry and don't know why it's because they are trying find us
Madeline Clow Aug 2016
I just saw a shooting star
Falling down from afar
The falling's entrancing
The vision's enhancing
They drop from nowhere
To nowhere
No mortar
No blast
Just falling
Dropping beauty
For a split second
Of eternity
A grace note
That gets lost
In nothing
Madeline Clow Aug 2016
The windows are barred, and the fire alarm is broken.
Perhaps these measures of safety, are merely a token.
Sent to stoke  careful ways, and to make  regular patrons.
The note that is in between the staves, is neither here nor there thus are the knaves.
They often play sinners and lure them in with promises, of the outlaws much craved solemnity, thus leading them to their graves.
Madeline Clow Jul 2016
I always thought that weeds where flowers, planted by the fairy folk.
And the thorns blunt daggers, a secret inner joke.
Left for the ones that can remember a time when frogs still croaked.

The garden's beauty is mocking, the maidens only half fair.
A memory left over from a time when no one would dare...

The garden pool is half empty, you're smiles reflection's a glare.
The gardens bird feeders are now all snared, and every living creature must beware.

The garden is poisonous , the unicorns now a mare.
A bleak memory left over from a time cradled with care...

And every day is meaningless, and every thrones a broken chair.
Every bunny is stuffed, and out their run the orphaned hares.
Madeline Clow Jun 2016
Plunge once more into the darkness, find again your  sacred lull.
Their you'l find hail on fire, here you are your greatest foe.
Vicious madness comes to find you, echoing from down below.
"Come here darling come and find me?", it rings inside of your skull.
Kiss the darkness to combine you, unconscious and out of woe.
Madeline Clow Jun 2016
Floating in destitute from joy, with an abhorrence for all the vivacious living.
Making fastidious efforts that lead to naught, as life proves to be trying.
Her broken hands try to create but they cannot today, and the chances of it ever being are bleak.
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