Du Chene and La Plante preach through the wires,
As I light up a smoke,
Watching the candle gently sway ever so,
As these two bear witness to the making of legends.

Personal courage,
To tell one's personal tale,
To cast off the societal thirlage,
And wander to where the predators wail.

They sing in perfect synchronisation,
The country twang of Du Chene a contrast to La Plante's,
Her vocals heartbrakingly beautiful,
As if the entire swath of water that is the Mississippi were as smooth as glass,
With the ability to turn as haunting as the memory of a lost love.

The skill to keep your wits about you,
Are needed in lands such as these,
And if you survive your legends will grow,
Gaining momentum to match the distance you travel and the tasks you complete,
Traveling with you,
Like the sensation of stain in a long healed wound,
That occasionally ghosts along the area.

That after your gone and long faded, Your travels will live on,
A wraith along those old and now overgrown trails,
To morph into something almost alive,
With each retelling of your tale.

Winding down their tune,
The music takes a calm tone once again,
Like how you imagined the eye of a hurricane as a kid,
Slowly winding up again a tad as if to hint at the struggles ahead,
They sing of where they wish to be,
And their willingness to bear the brunt of their tasks to reach their promised haven.

Writing Rhymes

Writing until I’ve got a headache in my eyes,
do you have any idea what it takes to write this many rhymes,
& speaking of writing I’m trying to write so many rhymes in my lines,
because they say it sounds a bit cliche so tell me am I doing alright,

I mean I habitually rap like it’s a ritual act,
it seems I’m a Minimalist with an excess of stacks,
and an excess of facts that’s sometimes off subject but rarely off track,
the Underdog that always seems to over react,

writing line after line after line after line,
switching my position with upward momentum,
so much that I don’t even know where I’m at anymore,
all I know is when I’m gone the world will still have these poems he’s sending,

he as in me and hey I do not mean,
to talk in the 3rd person I know that it’s weird,
but I do a lot of things that I do not mean,
like rhyme without trying like I’m doing right here,

which I guess makes sense in a sense,
since I often do things I don’t usually do,
see there’s two things I seem to be really good at breaking,
and that’s my own heart and my own rules,

so I’m working on only having one rule in my life,
and that’s to not have any rules,
because society and those living in it,
already try to over oppress us with their own crazy rules,

but what are rules if they’re written by fools,
I’d get into it but I’ll just choose not to,
because that’s another subject and I don’t want to get off track,
or subject us to something that’s not relative to the subject we’ve construed,

and since we’re on the subject of the subject that we’ve construed,
would you please remind me what we were talking about if you be so kind as to,
oh wait please delay what you we’re about to say because I remember now it’s we’re DFW,
and that stands for Down For Whatever ready for any endeavor and the chaos that could ensue,

which is this case seems to be rather mellow because it’s just words typed on a computer,
because I have an addiction to writing these missions in form of poetry and prose,
and I’d like to get better and start rhyming less with my letters,
but it seems old habits die hard & that my friend is nothing new I suppose,

and that’s why I’m writing until I’ve got a headache in my eyes,
do you have any idea what it takes to write this many rhymes,
& speaking of writing I’m trying to write so many rhymes in my lines,
because they say it sounds a bit cliche so tell me am I doing alright…

∆ LaLux ∆

THE DARK TOWER

On the barren northern moors lies a dark lonely tower. No one ever goes there, not a bird sings or a rabbit jumps. This is the place of loneliness and of despair and foreboding.

The sky is a leaden grey and the wind howls around the tower. Long lost souls cry for release. Some may be your friends of long ago or some long lost lovers of times gone by. This is a night time place of the lonely day.

A traveller comes along, over these barren cold hills. He sees the tower over the horizon distant, far and on its own. In a minute he is there standing before this stone monolith.

Slowly he enters the dark tower. The stairs are steep and the walls cold. Coming to the top he sees the souls, they are of everyone we knows. Just his presence there will set them free.

Violet light hits the tower, the sky turns blue and the souls are free. The traveller meets his long lost love dead for a thousand years. Now Lancelot and Guinevere are together again.

Your legacy is immortal,
You'll live forever in our hearts,
And once the grave calls out your name,
We will know that you played your parts,

Though it hurt, you suffered alone-
Doubt tried to break you down,
You almost quit, but you cried out,
And went another round,

So when we lost hope,
And went without a prayer,
You lifted us up,
And took our place out there,

So when you fall down,
Now it's our turn,
Just live on through us,
Your fire will burn.