There's an elephant with a fire poker on a magic carpet.  There was something about this typical scene that made me not want to part it.  I jumped aboard, he put his trunk around me, laughed and said, "Hello friend!"  I was bewildered as to would become of this journey, but I already wished it'd never end.  
         I asked the 'phant where we were going, and if there was a fire to poke.  He told me, "Ryno, we're to save a sacred city before it all goes up in smoke.  My name's Vishwah, and the city of Ramthew has been my home since birth for many many years.  Unfortunately this thriving place seems to now be consumed by tears.  LaChunga's an evil man that's recently taken over; a vicious tool with relentless rule.  He's hurting all with no discrimination, and that just isn't cool.  This is why I've been searching for someone to come to our city's aid.  I just fear there's not much time before the hope starts to completely fade."  Inspired I jumped up, he yelled, "Sit down!  You surely don't want to fall!"  I obliged and said, "We'll talk about seat belts later, either way I'll risk it all."
         He sensed that the time was right and swooped down into the town.  After seeing the drained expressions on various faces I couldn't wait to face the clown!  I said that I wanted a weapon to teach him a lesson, 'cuz I'm not much of a choker.  Immediately he said, "This is for you," and presented a different fire poker.  I've never felt more prepared to fight a battle for a city, and serve up some similar medicine to the man that knows no pity.
        I gathered some locals together to share the plan I had.  Vishwah & I were to break into the palace that night, though normally I'd consider that bad.  Thankfully they had an elephant entrance in the back of the structure.  Inside we were confronted by a captivating woman, who said she'd help, but I wasn't sure if I could trust her.  Nearby guards, were alarmed, and the girl ran out of the room.  Rear to rear it was the elephant and I, seemingly left to our doom.  Wildly flailing our fire pokers, against the mob we began to push.  Before we knew it we had beaten our adversaries and put an end to the ambush.  
        What followed was a series of hallways and locked doors with uncertainty on where to go.  Then after catching a glimpse of a fire in the distance it seemed,* now we know.  *Just beyond it was a huge circular room with the ruler at his desk.  He stood up as if he knew we were there and said, "This is your final test."  He spoke of knowing all of our plans and capturing almost all involved.  Despite every word he said we knew our plans had not dissolved.  
        He pulled a lever as we grew closer and the floor in front of us had dropped!  He then let out a hearty laugh thinking we've been stopped.  Vishwah and I looked at each other and nodded as he grabbed me with his trunk.  Vish threw me across the gap in the floor and I flew with a lot of *****.  I looked into LaChunga's eyes and he looked as though he didn't know what to feel.   Gazing back into mine I know he could tell **** just got real.  
        Reaching at his side he grabbed out his sword as I charged at him with much discord and we both felt the surge of vibrations as our metals clashed.  I told him, "Punk you can consider yourself a potatoe, 'cuz you're gonna get mashed!"  I swung and whapped him across the face, which seemed to put him in a daze.  But before falling over he splashed my face with a powder and my world had vanished in a haze.
         I eventually came to, to LaChunga's screaming and the girl's beauty in my face.  He was screaming to be let out for she put him in a chain-like embrace.  The floor was back, Vishwah was there, as I was surrounded by a crowd of stares.  The people were free & overcame the strife.  All of the hope had come back to life.  I said, "For now, LaChunga should live out his days getting pies thrown at him at the peoples' discretion.  He will be faced with nothing left to taste and know the true meaning of oppression."
The people were joyous and excited, but wanted me as their king.  I turned to the girl and said, "If you were my queen it'd make my heart sing!"  She blushed and accepted, but I said I'd only rule if all the people were by my side.  After all the cheers and emotions that were felt I said, "Let's all go on a celebratory magic carpet ride, now with seat belts!"

An Imitation Of Macpherson’s “Ossian”.


Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance
through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the
sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand.
“Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!”
Past is the race of heroes! But their fame rises on the
harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear
the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in
their hall of clouds. Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks
his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he
rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of
the mountain.

In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His
steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin’s sons had
fled before his angry spear; but mild was the eye of Calmar;
soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like
the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul:
his thoughts were given to friendship,—to dark-haired
Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in
battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:—gentle alone
to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o’er the blue waves. Erin’s
sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to
combat. Their ships cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on
the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin.

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. But the
blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin
slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in
thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the Host of Morven. To
watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their
spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they
stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his
locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not
his powers. “Sons of Morven,” said the hero, “to-morrow we
meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? He
rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who
will speed through Lochlin, to the hero, and call the chief
to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my
heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who
will arise?”

“Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,” said dark-haired Orla,
“and mine alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of
the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin
dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the
song of bards; and lay me by the stream of Lubar.”—
“And shalt thou fall alone?” said fair-haired Calmar. “Wilt
thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is
my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the
spear? No, Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and
the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has
been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the
banks of Lubar.”—”Calmar,” said the chief of Oithona,
“why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of
Erin? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of
air: he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora
spreads the feast for her Son in Morven. She listens to the
steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread
of Calmar. Let her not say, ‘Calmar has fallen by the steel
of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark
brow.’ Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why
should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live
Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me
in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my
grave. Sweet will be the song of Death to Orla, from the
voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of
Praise.” “Orla,” said the son of Mora, “could I raise the
song of Death to my friend? Could I give his fame to the
winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and broken
are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the
song together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards
will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar.”

They quit the circle of the Chiefs. Their steps are to the
Host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim-twinkles through
the night. The northern star points the path to Tura.
Swaran, the King, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops
are mixed: they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their
heads. Their swords gleam, at distance in heaps. The fires
are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but
the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the Heroes
through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when
Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It
rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is
raised on high. “Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of
Oithona?” said fair-haired Calmar: “we are in the midst of
foes. Is this a time for delay?” “It is a time for
vengeance,” said Orla of the gloomy brow. “Mathon of Lochlin
sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore
of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine: but
shall I slay him sleeping, Son of Mora? No! he shall feel
his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber.
Rise, Mathon, rise! The Son of Conna calls; thy life is his;
rise to combat.” Mathon starts from sleep: but did he rise
alone? No: the gathering Chiefs bound on the plain. “Fly!
Calmar, fly!” said dark-haired Orla. “Mathon is mine. I
shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the
shade of night.” Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft;
his shield falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He
rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall:
his wrath rises: his weapon glitters on the head of Orla:
but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the
wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves
of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the North, so pour the
men of Lochlin on the Chiefs. As, breaking the surge in
foam, proudly steer the barks of the North, so rise the
Chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din
of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield;
his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath.
Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes
the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind.
Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the Widows of
Lochlin. Morven prevails in its strength.

Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the
sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of
Ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks
scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o’er the breast of a chief? Bright
as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair
of his friend. ’Tis Calmar: he lies on the ***** of Orla.
Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the
gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame.
It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in
Calmar’s; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. “Rise,”
said the king, “rise, son of Mora: ’tis mine to heal the
wounds of Heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of
Morven.”

“Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with
Orla,” said the Hero. “What were the chase to me alone? Who
would share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at
rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of
morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a silver beam
of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my
empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save
Orla. Lay me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark!”

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark
the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our
sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to
Morven:—the bards raised the song.

“What Form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark Ghost
gleams on the red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on
the thunder. ’Tis Orla, the brown Chief of Oithona. He was
unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not
perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-
eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy
cave. The Ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear
thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty.
Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair
locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow,
and smile through the tears of the storm.

Writing whatever comes from the tip of the iceberg in my brain.
Sanity has banished me, willingly jumping down the drain.
You'd think that it'd cause strain,
I mean I do have to rearrange and explain myself more often than not.
I was gonna say something else, but I forgot, haha.
There's a lotta blahblah, but I shoot straight for imagination, fascinating conversations.
Thinks can get kinda crazy, with little to no persuasion.
Sometimes, I think I should proceed with more hesitation.
But instead I just project the thoughts for manifestation.
Gotta lotta love to give, and I'm happy to do it.
I can be your best friend, who'da knew it?
*Known, I know, exploding in my own zone with thoughts of fantasy.
Yet always happily tied down in this intricate sea of reality.
Don't forsake the give and take,
Embrace the love then reciprocate.
Life becomes all the more worthwhile when work turns into play.
I may end it here, so you, have a fantabulous rest of your day! :D

Just kidding, I want to keep going.
I want to explore more with my oars and keep rowing
Flowing into the unknown consciousness.
Emotions are based on perspectives, and let right now be BLISS

Love,
Ryno