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Douglas Scheurn Jul 2014
The Blade of Micheal, the angel of old and bringer of God's wrath. Has passed his weapon on to me, and set me on my path. The blade sings of the truth and what had once use to be. Now it thirsts for evil's blood and the souls to be set free. It feels perfect in my hand as it continues to shine bright. Given me the strength I need to win this hellish fight.



As I grip the handle
Of the red sword.
it illuminated like a candle,
Reflcting light like a Ward.

It filled me with new strength,
As I feel God's gift.
Looked the imps on the face,
As the edge was lifted.



Demon eyes blazed bright, as I raised the sword in my hand. I howled at the top of my lungs and took my final stand.
I stood in a sea of many, embraced by God's grace. Time to get it right and earn my rightful place.



I swung down,
With all my might.
Chopped his crown
With a single smite.

By hundreds they attacked,
And by many they fell.
Until the legions blood, pitch black,
Painted the floor of hell.
Silent Thoughts Jun 2014
I think I like pictures
Because they’re like dreams
Of this perfect world
Of more than it seems

You can sense the emotion
The intangible rapture
When they saw something beautiful
That they needed to capture
Ashley Williams Jun 2014
Curiosity sparks within,
The unknown rising in the foreground.
An evanescent whirlwind consumes all.

Shimmering rapture quakes on the horizon--
Tangible, ephemeral,
Eternally unstable.
Cunning Linguist Jun 2014
I  w a s  l e f t,

  m    a
  i      t
  s      
  e    b
  r    e
   a     s
      b     t
         l      
               e     

   D a n c i n g      o n   t h e   e d g e
\a n c i n g /         o n  t h e  e      
\n c i n g /        o n  t h e   d      
\c i n g /       o n  t h e   g      
\i n g /        o n  t h e   e      
\n g /        o n  t h e   o      
\g /        o n  t h e    f      
         V              e d g e                 

o  
       f    

             s  
                    a  
               n  
       i  
            t    
                 y
aj Jun 2014
The rapture is night.
As the stars align,
And tell stories of God's oncoming reign,
I decline.
The rapture is night.

The rapture is night,
And I speak with my feet, tapping, creating tremors in the souls of the dead.
Then my foreboding angel flapped her wings.

The devil sat outside my home,
Left his beauty's scent and stone,
Left me raked and raw,
The rapture is night.

When judgement came,
Hera held my hand
And whispered a secret into my ear,
that filled my cheeks with flame.

The rapture is night.
I felt like adding a ****** to an end when I wrote this.
Zia May 2014
Tick-tock, the time is near
So I tell this, please do not fear
Tick-tock, He's coming soon
One starry night with the bright round moon

Our faults, we needed to confess
Obey every single thing he says
The loathing in our hearts to stop
With the blood of violence, in its last drop

The Light is there, the Light is near.
Would you sacrifice the things you hold dear,
Just to grasp that Hope from afar
And to forget the past that brought that scar?

"To be rescued, or to keep on drowning?"
A question that bothers every human being
So wait on, and be watchful
The time will come for those who are faithful...

Tick-tock, the time is near
So I tell this, please do not fear
The time will come when all are done,
'Tis the arrival of the One.
Tommy Johnson Apr 2014
Earth quakes
Cyclones
Forrest fires
Tidal waves

Friends
Adversaries
Acquaintances
In the misty morning
At the grievous mourning  

Oh spirit true
We need you

       -Tommy Johnson
Martin Narrod May 2014
Memory

     is  the birth of cool, it is rapture and ignominious spokesmanship unearthed. Packed into a slatted-wood crate, milking the obsession from cash-toting hands. Freeing itself from your bottom lip while life ticks itself away on a digital stock-exchange display. I am down and you are up, and you save pennies while I search for Chrysanthemums and vanilla-scented candles. Scent is my fifth grade spaceship,
     I hide it in my pocket and take it into the forest when the week is over. Adventure is the part of our story that's caught in between complaining about money and having clean sheets. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday my hands mend themselves back from bleach, their crevices cave under bright lights, I go to the garden strip and put dirt on my face, over my shoulders, and on my back. I make a altimeter from an alarm clock, and worry what will happen if your feet should ever touch the ground.
Relief
     is a sarcophagus, the satiny silk chrysalis I weave into invincibility. I make myself a small child with a demon-proof lair, no one comes in, not even you.  I see

     how drugs take out your heart and put you anew, fresh: orange, pink, ultramarine. A wave is a soft gesture for twilight, a slow walk among the greying statue towers, bliss extracted from person to person tedium. How you exclaim about **** music as if your temple home was unfocused by jazz or synth-electro.
     I forgot your room of quiet had no bells, no hope, and no notes of resolve. Tragedy was the desert of your six to sixteen, while I made an opus out of crystal glasses and Cran-Raspberry jars. Then it was the relief, Neptune's hands on your *******, red dots of ecstasy connecting you to a higher vibration. You felt it was time to start exercising. I didn't **** you for modifying your perception of color, degrading in a salt pool- I didn't own your ****** it was just a place I went into to write.
    
    Three years later. I was growing backward, I was sixteen, making you the muse in my doorway, a James Bond goddess unraveling my fingers on her silky skin, except your golden crown was really a turban of snakes, and instead of silk I was groveling underneath you. That was the sweat that Ryan Shultz said I garbled up into two pedestal doves, I aimed by eyes straight at the city of gold, and then inside me shucked out every piece of self-respect and vitrified my spirit, castrating my lips and my tongue for something to come to or come at, he said I lived under pointed stars and that lying isn't a good way to get over past phases of silence.

     A few days ago, it all game back to me, in a random series of songs on an iTunes playlist. One memory from an isolated beach outside a strawberry patch near Santa Cruz, a second, two hands cupped over the ears, my face closing in on her smoothed-out pink bottom lip on an over-exagerated car ride to the San Francisco airport, and the third was the mention of non-vegan banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, a birthday I celebrated several years earlier. All of them in the coda.
    
     Verse four unbelievable. It caught me straying from the next stressor at hand. What's next? I move my cold hands from a keyboard versing strange relapse of mind, or I tear out another page, whip across town, and peel stamps onto a postcard to send.
     They were all tails from a memory. A slowing ghost that cooed at me from far away, beating me up and down, pulling my eyes away from a scent I continually tried to remember.
Martin Narrod May 2014
They told me the only thing that could cure heartache was war, and since the war wouldn't take me I figure the only thing to do now is take up a life of crime. Gabriel Garcia Marquez says in Love in the Time of Cholera that the only cure for heartache is to find other hearts to break. Five years have passed and I still remember without fail the flint of a lighter, the squint of an eye, and the bell of your dress. I dream a dream each night, sweet variation of the story of you. It comes down to a letter sometimes, I go to the window well with a notebook and a pencil and I draft a sonnet, sometimes a verse, any form of an expression to idle the time it takes for me to find you. I know stars that haven't lived as long. The way I cupped my hands over your ears, the way rapture lived and loved, you kissing me in the shade of the palm trees up their on Notre Damen Ave. I know the curve of the Earth wrapped in the shades of the skin on your body. I live every day for the chance that I will meet you again.
Letter to an ex-girlfriend
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