40 years we have lived in the light and baunty so bright, then comes 40 Years of darkest night. Our town sleeps one last time in our lovely homes before we set off for the land of safety and light. The twilight is here to the town's dismay, the horrors come forth from the darkest pine-forest beyond our friendly place. The town here's the evil waking in the dark place beyond and sounds the horns to board the ships that will carry them to safety from this soon-to-be horrid place. We left a lovely town in the shadows of death, we will return in 40 years to reclaim what we have left. Good luck to those who stay behind for we are the lucky ones that flea from the coming endless night. Those who stay will face their **** nightmares, but fear not for we will be back to bury your bones beneath our lovely Town in 40 years. Whether you're brave or ****** we shall not know. Death awaits you beneath the snow. Good luck you poor soul.
Copyright Michael Robert Triska July 2018 This is a Dungeons & Dragons 5th edition game called Endless Night. The players are besieged by all manner of ****** has the 40-year night Falls over the town and the town villagers have all left the village for safer climates.
In an era where used cars are “pre-owned” And ****** are hard to come by I search back alleys for a sign of life All the flowers died in my apartment A lover tells me it’s from the cold He hated it and so did they I thought he meant of the winter I spent the last 5 years meat free My cats hate me because I can’t share plums with them I plant the pits but they never grow A different lover tells me that isn’t how plants work I’ve never been smart But any good man likes a starving ***** Except for the ones that matter So i wink at the guy in the produce section His daughter asks if I’m a witch I say yes But he’s too committed to a piece of metal To visit my apartment Of death and empty flower pots I wear a lot of black But my favorite color is yellow I want yellow shoes But I’m afraid they’re too brash So i wear olive heels And pin stripe dresses And heart shaped sunglasses Because spring is here And everything is warm But my flowers still will not grow I always thought he meant they didn’t like the winter But he always meant my heart
The cold is my commander, it taunts me, while it steals my sheaths of warmer cleaving skin sections exposed by its notions and collected conscious. The sounds are complicated, the moons azurean hue resembles the coldness of my cigarette's embers blue, and then the commander shucks my final breath away. It isn't something that I barely feel, but rather something that lightly see. It's hoarfrost births its fickle shell of hardrime on the last of those interstices I once called my fingers. And from this choke, this frozen voice is detained by the vox ice amplifier that steals each noise. Besides, in an interruption I hear our whorish neighbors score of shouting scripted shouts, and screaming scripted screams. Each day she becomes less and less like any real human being. It's hard to believe that behind these walls that shield me from the albicant and atrocious heraldry winter casts me through, these sounds are concentric like limited Earth words written in the prompts that some ill and wanton succubus would. If only to lure herself from the pains she gained while lying to those amidst her closest ties. I am further distressed, though fully dressed narrowly watching bits of frozen water interlace themselves beneath freezing in the corners of my mind. When until the shaking and commandeering of my mortal sounds, disperse amidst the ferocity that Spring white snow absconds. The tremulent vocal chords are hailed by a hard-rimed ****, who ensuingly rips the cantering spirit from each last place it stood. Only those who know this wind could speak about the way it genuflects and obsesses on these rules. This freezing genuflection hails to every servant of its rein, I can barely exhale the inspiration that rises from the head, until any skin exposed to air is reclaimed by my commander for good. Then each neighbor's head may lilt upon the piste, and pray for something more balmy than negative eleven degrees.
I sat down to write about how you made me feel, Funny, I thought something indescribeable would be easy to explain
For the longest time I was In a dark place. With weights of lead bound around my heart. The inside of my skull became walls that I was forced to scream at my flesh was a barrier to letting the happyness out, my fingers gripping cold steal triggers trembling pleading to let the grey matter out To decorate the walls in my own shade of misery. But I'm here Breathing
It's strange, for a boy who never leave his room. To sit Under his washing line and listen to the birds sing. I lie on butter cups as I watch clouds dart between wire and cotton, how did I get here? What God did I pray too? Who did I pay?
When my world was over. My pistol In my hand. You happened. The cloud that had allways sat just out of sight came running. Galloping . To give me water. To give me life,
A blue eyed blonde haired mirror of myself emerged, Your smile Is warm. And kind. Like the evening sun I write this in, Your touch was wholesome. And craved, you took the freyed edges of the tapastry that had become my life and started to spin a new story. You took the lead weights from my heart and melted them into sinkers so we could catch stories with our fingers, your skin felt like silk that I could never afford. With each step you danced on egg shells as you try collect my broken pieces And when a part of my was missing you filled it with a part of you. And now I find myself intertwined. Here in this warm glow I notice something I've never had before. The voices In my head have stopped chiming. The cries are far away. Your gifts have not stopped coming. I pray your here to stay In less time then anyone has ever been in my life you have done so much more, in less time then it took to knock me down you've built me into something more I'll never forget the way I feel right now, here. Today. Because each and every time I see you. I know I'll stay this way
I tried >. < your a light house on a dark and desolate shore and no one has ever been better at guiding me home x
Using the church as a kickstarter is not the work of the Lord Pastors pimping congregations like ****** Psychological manipulation Using faith in reverse making people hurt for not buying into the BS Love offerings have become "buy the pastor a new jet fund" Since when is love defined by how much you donate Since when is salvation based on how much money you take the pastor
forgive them father they know not what they've done they have traded your book for money used for guns to fund there wars condemning their eyes only granting their comfort in ****** leaving them to sleep from woman to woman craving to fill an emptiness inside subconsciously begging for words from the wise forever searching for a meaning in life slitting their own throats because of lack of purpose and a **** to know what it truly means to die feast your eyes on a systematic bee hive stinging and attacking everything they see desperate to hold on to the possessions of their being