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Lady Ravenhill Aug 2018
Amb’r dawn glows warmly
In the m’rns swirling mist
Phantom mem’ries a whispering
On our long depart’d bliss

Flowing from the mountains,
Sweet reminiscence carried endlessly  
By crook’d streams to the open arms
of the lonely restless sea

Finally we found a place to rest
Our woven st’ry's branches
Like the sparrow weav’r’s nest
Intertwin’d and then forsaken

Our passions did breathe in solidarity
Now a hushed loss lament’d, yet
Looking forward to our apogee
The nurtur’d hope of new mist in the ‘m’rrow
@LadyRavenhill 2018
anshika gehani Mar 2018
Do not thy tell me to speak up the truth,
Because my truth not be what you thinkest,
And yet what my truth may speakest,
Thy ears may fail to understand.
What maybe your truth may not be someone else's <3
Madam X Jan 2018
I have not yet pricked my finger upon the needle of a yarn spinning wheel
Nor have I bitten from a poisonous fruit
Midnight has passed and I am still in my clothes from last nights meal
And a sea witch has not made me mute.

I still have yet to kiss the lips
of a prince whose come to save me.
The last girl who did that, turned into
a frog  
But fell in love severely.  

I haven't had the chance to prove my bravery
with a sword or bow and arrow
For I am no princess, just patiently waiting,
For my one true kneeling pharaoh.
I tried to mention a majority of the Disney princess stories, though I realize I excluded quite a few. Please comment a fitting title. I'm having a bit of trouble.
Feliz G Nov 2016
For thine soul needs none of thy assistance.
When you've been reading the Divine Comedy over and over and decided to have a take at Old English. I'm pretty sure I ain't doing it right
(Descendant of the Eight Small Furies)

Cold frigged and wet but not icy and not yet. Two laborers at docks
find camaraderie in talks, tho’ their neighbors bustle by as they unload shipping stocks,  

For the kinsfolk miss a nothing a light mist of breath when huffing.  
The women like to pout as the crassy men do shout, shine on awhile whistling, Inn-keepers at shops coo their bristling and Old Wicca ones seen hissing from low, low talk in whisperings,

Although the morning bright the seas are high and not retreating, weather cool and fleeting, the peoples sounds a blend of bleating, as wily sheep would gather to speak about a matter for it is not the people’s spoke of that draws faint sorts of blather.

On this day...rains are much to rather, feigning raspy talons cloaked in chatter and from stores to shores to boat, seas, lakes, lochs, bridges over moat, not as to say they gloat, or ramble to invoke which fear of and from it stoke the gossip on one surly bloke…

For on this day everyone is talking in this seaside town in Eire. A hero undone by gossip but none can be called a liar. For about whom and what of -a man of such great fire.

Celebrity renown, born and raised but not settled down. Within its boundaries a-proper but of such character to copper, to change tasty meat to fat and bone, awe in disposition down to tone, mind boggling this gent whose life god gave as a gift of own.

In a perplexity of fright, brought tragedy each night and none could get away, from the obvious decay, due brutal awful fray, to make a beast from a shining dove, what the hell was God thinking of?

The crisper ears do so hear though not quite enough to whet, the imaginings to happenings they speak about just yet.  So hastily move spies, as I tell you of the sighs, the indignity and pride, swallowed with a town’s growing angry tide,

Upon this night so they see a man, creep who once the pride of Dan, loved more above all here in Tan, his birthplace this old briny-land but lately fondness on the wan, oh here he comes to close in again, to wane and wax vaudevillian, end up by dark a plain villain, as his face turns a shade of vermilion, electric ghost of Kirlian, eclectic host of deviling and calculated mind disheveling,

Pumped of mead or whiskey arguments are risky. Against his manner and girth, intoxicated nature -or mental worth. Sheer size attests his power, muck and mirth to fallen valor, the change is said to wow us, proven brute against all prowess, as such preferred and fight and such to nightly fright,

Béarthr is this man of once, of promises found to be just fronts, hanging around a town's high perch…though seen at the bar as sulk and lurch, or testy to some called a sailor who know not the fear of old dear Balor?

Sullen rent asunder, quick to wit when buntered, try with fists this skunkard; you brought low as a punter, hail to hell with such a drunkard! To stand and watch in awe, as blood and cracks and calls with cries and screams at falls, at doors torn from building halls, no end or stop to pause, sheer terror fighting brawls with fists he lays the laws, a violent testament to theater,

The burly beast named Béarthr!

Eight levels down to hell with him, each evening a town made grim but not tonight and nevermore, a double barrel out missing door, a silence from frosty place our cavern and dead beast felled on floor of tavern!  

If you find yourself frisky one night and driving through our Tan. If you’ve got salt are brisk for fight and hold your weight in sand…
…then make your way to such a place, renowned for such a meter,

You’ll find a name above the door;

O’ Ochtar beag the Béarthr!
Old English-style rhyme. Béarthr is Gallic and pronounced, "Be-ate-tor."
Noah Stowe Jan 2016

Oh how the twang of man’s harp
Disrupts my precious sleep.


It’s never put at rest,
“Control yourself,” I thought.


My rage grew deep,
I could hear them laugh at me, already an outcast in this young world.


Somehow, almost as if I were possessed,
I began to **** them one by one.


Night by night the casualties grew,
I couldn’t control myself, it’s a demon’s curse.


I kept killing them,
Until the final night.


The young hero pulled out my arm
And raised it up in a bitter-sweet victory.


Away I ran into my lair
What have I done?


Was this the pain I inflicted on man?
The pain was throbbing and strong, like no pain I had ever felt.

Finally the world went black.

The twang was gone.

At peace I will lay forever.
I hope mother won’t make the same mistake.
A Yorks Jun 2015
Hwæt bið þá færbe þære nihte?
Hwilc bið þá híwnesse undræm mónan?
Hwá wát þá sorga þára engla?
Hwý mæg neman ánóþer lufian?
"What is the colour of the night?
Which is the hue under the moon?
Who knows the sorrows of the angels?
Why can none love one another?"
To lie or not to lie - that is the question:
Whether 'tis better to keep the truth
Shutting the light in the dark,
Or to bring upon pain or pleasure
Why, by bringing truth, gain unwanted reaction. To lie, deceit -
No more - and by secret to say what we want to say
The will of truth and lie
That flows from lips - 'tis an infection
One craved by all. To lie, deceit -
Deceit, perhaps too much. Ay, there's the problem.
For in that deceit of truth what pathologic lieing may come.
When we have gained such filthy pleasure from this lie,
Must force us thought. That's the reality
That makes chaos of such pleasure.
For who really wants to hear or speak an **** truth,
The lover's love gone, the child's art trash,
The woman's **** face, the man's unattractive body,
The co-worker's stench, and the embarrassing blemish
That gives opportunity for lie,
When they themselves would appreciate
Why give them heart ache? Who would give them truth,
To give them hurt,
But the chance they would enjoy the truth,
The unknown glee from fate's unlucky victims
For the victim's mind confuses the liar
And makes the liar want to speak truth
And to see that reaction instead.
Thus turning pathologic lieing into suthe saying,
And thus the addicting infection
Is cured with the disease of truth,
And infection seems less appealing
With this regard the lies soon stop
And lose what effect they once had.
This was an old high school assignment I found today. We worked on Hamlet and had to turn his soliloquy into one of our own, so I made one about lieing!

— The End —