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Modern Serenity Nov 2014
The river and oceans natural elements
The oceans used to clensed the mind and soul
The oceans and rivers have tides and waves
But not to wash away the memory
Solaces Jul 2013
We were but days away of completing this strange object we were buliding for the healer of the Earth..

The Earth was already reborn again..

Its rivers fresh and clear..
Oceans clensed and blue..
Lands rich and alive..
People free of diesese..
The world singing the same song..

At last the creation was complete..
From a mountain we carved out a sort of series of shapes and arcs..
I cannot explain it..
You truly have to see it to believe it..
The healer then walked up one of the arcs and into the center..
The healer of the Earth shine brighter than our sun...
The shapes shadowed around the healer as he shined ever so..
A gate of light seem to open above the stars in the sky..
And there fell a ball of light to the healer..
The healer caught this light and held it in front of it..
The light then shaped itself into another healer..
It was his love..
At this moment I felt what he felt..
We help build a machine a sort of gate to bring his lost love back..
The gate could only be bulit by us for him..
A race had to unite and work together without conflict..
A sort of final expression to a formula to complex for us to understand..
They became colors we had never seen as they held eachother..
The entire mountain machine mankind had bulit for them begin to shine..
It then flashed and vanished all at once..
They are going home..
Henry Brooke Feb 2015
Days pass so fast beween those hills

the ones of suffering delt with skill

A heart not clensed from ill design

softer than silk, fresher than pines.

I write this thousenth letter with a mix

the juice of my oragans, stones and sticks.

So hang around if you feel alone,

and hear the letter leave the stone

and become bone from a bush.


Cast 'tween lands of firery ice

my body acts; I pay the price.

******* of a blueprint, my cardboard genes

still fail to smell a rotting dream.

The clean produce with an iron strength,

a deadly aurora of graveyard stench.

Between the rosebuds, black as soot

lies my ****-bush pushing roots.

Free to amend, from time itself;

Id then be able to cure my self.



Days do pass fast beween these hills

the ones of dementia, of feeling ill

A heart not yet ready to resign,

for there is hope in Valentine.
Work in progress
Johnnie Rae Feb 2012
****** memories,
We made,
Oh what a pretty shade of red,
We made,

As we traced the lines,
We watched the blood flow,
Out of our body,
Along with the stress,
Of the pain,
That almost everyone caused,

Together,
We clensed,
Outside and in,
Oh, what ****** memories,
We made.
Inspired by true events, I am sad to say,
But remember guys,
I'm okay.

— The End —