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(A Nostalgic Embodiment)

I. Prologue: The Imbalance

Beneath a sky of indeterminate hue,
Where metaphors dripped from the lamplight’s view,
There stood a figure with storied might—
Whose IMAGINATION burned too bright.

They bent the frame of every law,
Wrote truths in smoke, in blood, in straw.
But every time they raised their pen,
They found the void looked back again.

"Too light," the voice beneath the bedframe hissed.
"Too bright to cast the proper fist.
Where is the weight? Where is the gloom?
You walk through myths but leave no tomb."


II. The Oath Beneath the Neon

So in a diner that only exists when it’s raining,
They ordered black coffee and called it training.
No sugar. No cream. No need to explain.
Just sipped from the cup like a priest in pain.

"I will not seek to shine, but to echo.
I will not rhyme, but I may bellow.
Let my next line land like a crowbar sigh—
And may every metaphor taste like goodbye."


III. Inventory: Shifting the Look

They stole a coat from a thrift store rack,
Stitched with echoes and shadows and tact.
A pocket held grief. A button held sleep.
The collar was silence folded three layers deep.

Brooch of regret? Clipped on with pride.
Gloves stitched from dreams they let die outside.
Boots that thudded with post-symbolic weight—
Enough SEPULCHRITUDE to intimidate fate.

IV. The One-Line Training Grounds

A stranger asked, “Hey, how’s your week been?”
The figure exhaled, and leaned back in:

“The sky still owes me an answer.”

“I fed the clock and buried the receipt.”

“This smile is just teeth doing damage control.”

They never repeated the same line twice.
And soon, small talk became a heist.

V. The Silence Shaped Like a Weapon

Not a glare. Not a scoff.
Just a pause you could hang your regrets off.

They stared down compliments like loaded dice,
And left parties through walls carved of ice.

A simple nod became a reckoning.
Laughter died before it could echo.
The power of not replying
Was now a blade drawn slow.

VI. The Private Page

In candlelight drawn from doubt and dusk,
They penned a letter in funeral husk:

“To the lighthouse that never was—
I named every wave after you.
You still didn’t show.”


Sealed it with wax. Buried it in a drawer.
A secret they’d never need to weaponize—
Because it already was.

VII. The Theme Song of Collapse

They walked with the sound of dead air breathing,
Their footsteps aligned with Godspeed, you’re leaving.

Every room slowed to grayscale time,
As their aura hummed a fading rhyme:
A jazz tune played through broken glass,
A dirge dressed in sepia mass.

People whispered, “Was that… a soundtrack?”
But none remembered the melody.

VIII. The Overpass of Refusal

Someone tagged “I ♥ A-Pug” on the wall of their work.
They looked once.
Tilted their head.
And punched the metaphor in the snout
to assert dominance.

Then walked away.

That was the moment the SEPULCHRITUDE clicked.

IX. Boss Battle: The Final Balance
Their IMAGINATION rose like a cathedral in flames.
Their SEPULCHRITUDE stood like the ash that remained.

Two stats. One form. A perfected glitch.
They could now speak truth or curse with a twitch.

The balance wasn’t symmetry.
It was sovereignty.
It was the right to choose what tone to carry
and leave the rest unsaid.

X. Epilogue: The Window Left Open

Someone once asked,

“What are you?”

They replied, without turning:

“The part of the myth that never resolved.
The page that folded back on itself.
A sigh mistaken for closure.”


And just like that—
They vanished,
boots echoing,
window wide,
untranslated,
unsaved,
untouched
by the need to be anything
other than true.

XI. Endgame Stats:


IMAGINATION: MAXED

SEPULCHRITUDE: PERFECTLY CALIBRATED

AURA: [NOIR / STORM / VELVET REDACTED]

STATUS: Myth Adjacent

CURRENT LOCATION: Unknown (possibly Portland)

[END]
A silly, silly thing I wrote while reminiscing on Problem Sleuth--the third  MS Paint Adventure
When the dopamine hits
My tongue whips
Colours claw
My heart skips
I start to warm
To people, the outside
When the dopamine hits
Play, quips
Imagination is alive.
But Gordon,
ODB told me to like it raw
So if I bite into a chicken thigh
And realize the rubber texture
Is because I didn’t deep fry
Am I just a donut to you?
Glazed and sprinkled or fruit looped?
This was just something quick that came to me reminiscing about kitchen nightmares
Maria 5d
Will you remember her?
She was so fun after all!
She laughed by eyes, laughed softly.
She was so light and airly at all.
Will you remember her?

Will you remember her?
She so loved all sunsets,
Loved stars and caught their light!
She ran away in her sleeps some place.
Will you remember her?

Will you remember her?
She so adored winter laugh,
Snowdrifts to be higher, the snow to be white
And bitterlly cold and not in half.
Will you remember her?

You will remember her!
She so loved to love!
She gave of herself wholeheartedly!
She couldn’t live without love!
You will remember her!
Love is often so simple, so light, so airy, so pure, so real. But we just don't see it. But then, when we remember, it all comes back in our memory...
Thank you very much for reading this poem! 💖
Love me as I am,” you say —
The dumbest line we use each day.
It holds no truth, it holds no grace,
Just empty words in a worn-out place.

You mumble it with trembling tone,
He looks through you, cold as stone.
You hoped for poems, stars, romance —
But he won’t give you one more chance.

You dreamed a boy with softer hands,
Who feels, who sees, who understands.
But hearts like his, so dark, withdrawn,
Will never bloom, will never dawn.

You wanted tales with happy ends,
You hoped he'd break, but no—he bends.
nder touch, no gentle smile,
He’s drowned in poison, hate, and bile.

The light once clear has turned to ash,
His soul is twisted, cold, and brash.
He won’t believe in something pure—
Too scared to love, too insecure.

“Love me as I am,” again—
You chant it like a holy strain.
But poems aren’t for girls who cry,
And he’s too lost to even try.

“Love her as she is,” you fool—
It’s not such nonsense, not so cruel.
But blind and proud, you walked away,
And let your joy just rot and stray.
Grayke May 30
I have a word on my tongue and funny enough it sounds like ton mixed with tan, as in tongue

How do you spell it?
Are there any letters left,
or ways to encourage pronunciation like I intend

Like tahn of meanings withheld for now
Or taan, the power within
From the mouth
then someone's mind,
then mine.
Or I could use other letters and make another word.
tohn, taun, toan, or T͓a̴ňᶰ
I kind've even want to play with new and other characters/letters and words that make more cents
scents
or sense
Uck, English is strangely
Manx May 26
I recall the faux weddings
That youth had adorn.
We were something like five or six,
Playing in her attic.
They had setup
A whole play marriage altar
Out on the back lawn.
My "bride-to-be"
Was dressed in her attire properly,
White veil & everything.
We had often played at house,
But never at matrimony.
It was always explicitly implied,
In such games,
That we were already married.
I did, she did -
You may kiss;
Sweet pronouncement!
Just as with half of all marriages,
We eventually grew apart.

Maybe it was the economy,
Maybe it was our goals;
Maybe it was because we were children,
Maybe because it was just for fun.

I still remember picking for eggs
At her home on Easter.
MetaVerse May 22

                                                                ­                                  a
                                                       ­                                     w 
                                                                ­                       a
                                        ­                                         &
                                                                ­          up            
                                        ­                            up        
                                                              up­                
                             up                                 
up                                                     
            ­down               
                                          down

David Hilburn May 21
Police at the circus:
Ok, buddy, why the scream?
Excitement is for children, here...
Thoughts of adulthood, should learn to be

The juggler says hi
When may has an opportunity, baring a tooth
The fright of charity, is in the air, with silence
Terror came, when pasts are aloof?

The third ring, comes forward...
Sated angels, with misery for needs each?
Knowing a drama in the lie, we sternly compare what starred
A cagey house among many fields, we know the faring vanity...

Letting the culprit, ride the elephant?
We saw the problem, animals with a pace for us...
Have the cordiality to look, and see the limit
Of a surprise, happy enough to feed and pet; with thus?

A happier boat?
With moments to clear the board...
Saintly fights, with the voice of a stranger, are what we thought
Getting hysteria out of the way, makes good nature have a word?

With a wisdom's, shadow?
Prepare our smile, with a remembering guise...
Of what worry was to your fellow man, a place to hold
Ones distance to a wish, that wasn't a person again? home pie...
eeny meeny miney moe, why did the tiger go home? because it smiles better there...
Damocles May 16
Waste not, want not
When they offer the world
Take them by their collar
And shake their money trees,
Of all the junk it scatters,
Only the junkets matter.
BLT's Webster's word of the day challenge.
Word; Junket
Date: 5/16/2025
Meaning: a
: TRIP, JOURNEY: such as
(1)
: a trip made by an official at public expense
(2)
: a promotional trip made at another's expense
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