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AnnaMarie Jenema May 2014
Mom should’ve been here by now. I sat on my frilly blue and purple polka-dotted bed waiting for the knock on the door telling me mom found my dress. Finally, it raps on my door. “Mom! Did you find it?” My eyes widen as the silky blue sways in her arms, it’s beauty sings as a caged bird let free. I gasp in admiration. “I-It’s wonderful!” I pick it up and it glides down into a perfect fit.  “I’m glad you love it. Come down after you finish getting ready.” The door thuds after her. Looking across the room I note my honey brown hair that curls into pigtails. Restraining the squeal that is caught in my throat, I travel the length of my room to the mirror.

     The mirror sits on an antique dresser that my mom found at a garage sale. At first I didn’t care much for the ancient wooden junk that is at least half a century old. Now the gold-tinted metal gleams with pride once again. Rusty gems were in carved into an arc surrounding the mystic glass. “Lydia! Can you go upstairs and get that box down for me?” Mom’s request interfered with my thoughts. … Go in that dusty attic? “Sure mom!”

       Out the door and into the hallway stood a door like any other in our house. It squeaked open as eerily as what you’d expect in a haunted house. ‘A box, a box’ than out of the side of my vision I thought I saw motion. I shook it off as just being a spider or mouse. Soon my footsteps lead me to come across a dresser and mirror identical to the one in my room. It was cluttered with cobwebs and spiders. “Not very well taken care of, are you?” I muttered the joke. I looked into the mirror expecting to see a light blue dress covered in dust and sparkly silk material, but there was no reflection at all. I looked even closer at the mirror, before realizing, there was no mirror at all.

     I looked around until I found it behind the dresser, sitting on the ground. I touched one of the gems that surprisingly glowed despite the rust. Something shone until I was blinded. A tingle ran through the hand that brushed the mirror’s gem and flew through my arm until it encompassed me, racing into my every feeling until I couldn’t feel anything. My eyes shut and refused to open themselves.


     A gentle breeze grasped my hair, as music descended from the air. I could smell what seemed to be a banquet of some kind, mixed with perfume. Slowly my eyes lifted their veil to lock with waves pounding against a brick wall. I was looking down from a balcony into the erupting sea. The white brick-made balcony was large and lonely even with the brush of people walking by. I hid behind the rose-red curtains to look around. People danced and talked. Some ate. The music paved the trail for their feet to follow, all very gracefully. The men wore suits that tails drip to their knees. Their white shirts buried under sashes of gold, red, or blue. Sometimes holding medallions, some only dressed in ties. The woman wore Victorian dresses of every color and shade. Frilled hats with flowers were arranged on their heads.

     Wait, I’m not supposed to be here. I was in the attic, going to the café with mom. What was I doing? My head ached from the effort to recall my actions. Why can’t I remember? I stumble backward only to reach the balcony’s edge. Where is this anyway?

      I dive back into the curtain to search for my answer. The softness of the curtain was a rose pushed to my nose. I peeked through the small gap to find a page carting some clothes past my hiding spot. I sneaked next to the cart being wheeled into a doorway, planning to find a way out. I lost the page and walked around until I went through an archway door. The cool air spiraled against my silk-trapped skin. The scent of flowers bloomed around me. I found the garden labyrinth.

     Walking through the maze’s hedges I arrive at a beautiful fountain displaying crystal clear pouring waters. Everywhere I gazed, flowers embraced the greenery. My breath deprived my lungs of air as I took in the sight. It was so magnificent under the light of the full moon. A few lamps lighted a sidewalk path maneuvering along the hedges. I circled the fountain, taking in the surroundings. My silk dress was shining in the dim glow. The sceneries beauty entranced me.






     I didn’t see a shadow before me, and almost fell to the ground. In a graceful swoop an arm latched around my waist to pull me to my feet. “Be careful to look where you’re going, please my lady.” He bowed his head while his slim rimmed glasses started to fall off of his face, suddenly he looked up at me; sliding them back on with a slight wave of a finger. “That garb isn’t from around here.” He noted my sky blue dress with interest. I’m not even sure where I am. “I seem a bit lost. Will you help me?” he stares at me closer, a deeper curiosity shines in his green eyes, daintily brushed by his dark hair. “My dear, if it brings you comfort to know, we are in London at the Buckingham palace.”

      I gasped; London was so far away from New York. It’s across seas. I gulped at my next question as sweat pricked the nape of my neck, “What’s todays date?” His eyes sparkled at the question. “Why, it is June 28, of 1838. The entire castle is bustling at these very words. It’s a day to remember. Now my dear, I must take my leave and see to the ballroom. Farewell.” He bowed, than turned to leave. His slow stride seemed like a dance all on it’s own. My gaze was caught on his figure following the foot trail until he had disappeared. I sighed at my first encounter with someone in this grand place. The Buckingham Palace, in 1838. …1838!! That can’t be right, it’s 2014. Then the shock hit me as if bricks fell from the castle onto my forehead; the clothes, the language, the pages, and royalty. This couldn’t be London in present Great Britain.

    I circle the garden once more before I decide to go back inside. The young noble had realized my clothes didn’t belong here, probably anyone who sees me would recognize this too. I start off towards the footpath. The melodic rhythm still swirled in the breeze. Than for a second I thought I heard a footstep. My head twists back only to see a shadow move. The cool air now seems icy. Multiple possible things to say to the night air gallop through my mind. “ Such a lovely night,” is the one I decide on. From behind me a few feet back I imagine a sigh. No, not imagined, but actually there. It’s too real. I turn on my heels just to catch a glimpse of a black cape caught in the wind, as it’s master floats into the open. “My, It is lovely. However, I didn’t realize such a strangely dressed commoner as you could enter this palace.” His smirk shows sarcasm as easily as his eyes. “I never intended to visit a palace, even less in London.” My honest answer only has him conceal his laugh.




     “I’m sure you didn’t. Yet, your dressed for a fine occasion.” His hand reaches for mine. I pull away from the willowy figured glove. “Why not allow me this dance in the garden?” I back away, aware that his voice is too prescient and I should be careful. “Are you going to be wary of me?” his gaze turned pained, his blue eyes that were once full of playfulness now melted into hurt. I unintentionally reach out for his gloved hand. His laugh echoes past the foliage. “Such a naïve girl.” Dread decided that this nobleman should be avoided at all costs. I ran towards the palace. “And so the chase begins.” He snickers and rushes after me.


     I pass through the archways, glancing back now and again to find the caped captor flying along my tracks. If only there was some way to lose him. I ducked into the nearest doorway. At the far end of the hall I could see a door with a sign saying, “Dressing room”. I flung myself under a table and tablecloth to hide myself as my pursuer rounded the corner into the hall. I tucked my head between my knees and waited for his footsteps to fade. The warm place that held me trapped was close and too easily discoverable. I held my breath and tried to sink into the darkness. I’m not here. No one can find me.

     After enough time flew by to ensure my safety, I crawled out from under the table. The cloth draped over my head. I looked back and forth, half expecting to see a smirking smile, and haughty eyes. A girl stares down at me. She’s at least ten years old. “Shhh.” I press my finger to my lips and gently smile at her as if we’re keeping a secret between us. She giggles, copies the motion to her own mouth, than delightfully skips away. I let out a sigh and stand up. I follow the hall to the dressing room. The door creaks open and I look around once more, startled by the sudden noise.

     I sneak inside hoping find that the room is abandoned. In the darkly lit room, only my footsteps sound. As far as I can tell, no one has entered lately. I walk over to the carts of clothes and run my hand over the first one on the stack. It’s a ruby-red dress with fine material and some gems similar to those in the mirror. … The mirror. Not in my room, but the attic. My head hurts again, but I know I touched its gem before winding up here. How? I look through the dresses until I find a light blue and white one. The bowed sleeves come down to my elbow with frills encasing the bottom. The neckline forms a squared area of similar white frills. A small white sash acts as a belt that drops into the skirt of the dress. Two similar white ones come down each side. I pick up the light material and set it near my feet.
      My old silk dress easily slips overhead, making way for the new clothing. After tugging tight sleeves and bodices into place the light dress swoops over my feet. I spin through the dark room only to stop at catching someone’s eye. I immediately turn towards the frozen face. It is my own reflection in a mirror. I face myself as my sight settles on the dress I wear. My honey brown hair curled over the dress from my pigtails. My eyes sparkled it’s matching blue to the dress. In the corner of the room, next to the mirror, sat a large wooden box. I looked through it to find that it was full of jewelry and accessories. I prodded its contents until I found sky blue bows to wrap in my pigtails.

     I walked into the open hallway, now littered with people going to and fro. Anyone from passerby’s, young nobility, servants, and pages. Once the hall emptied I fled the room, hurrying through the corridors until I met with the room that created the harmonious trance. At the ends of the great ballroom sat crowds eating and laughing. Clusters of on-goers danced and chatted. In the middle of the farthest side of the room sat a throne that was embroidered with metal marks from centuries of legends. On the throne sat a woman at least eighteen of age. Her regal crown shone despite other attractions surrounding the dance room. A page strode over to her as she flourished her hand for his service. He stood and listened intently to her whispers. Finally, he stood and roared for the room’s attention. From his mouth spilled cheer and wistfulness, as he demanded the crowd’s ear. “Our young Queen Victoria’s coronation has completed. Now starts a new era! Let the celebration proceed.” The room reverberated with hope, love, and admiration for their new ruler.

     ‘Queen Victoria has been crowned’ having no clue how to find a way home, I disconsolately decide to join in the festivities. The crowd moves into a larger room. I stagger after them; the mass pushing everyone forward. We pass the kitchens. The aroma of cakes and deserts of every kind rises into the cool night air. The only smell more perceptible than delicate delights is the perfume penetrating the entire castle. We enter a by far more spacious ballroom. Empty amphitheater seats loom overhead, tied into the walls for onlookers to watch the ball unravel. Once again I glance at these to notice black material hangs over the edge. A head moves as people fill the seats. A nobleman with a black cape and familiar blue eyes takes their seat next to men and woman of high status. I walk into the mop to hide myself, while watching him. He laughs and chats with them as if he’s known them all his life.


      Unable to watch where I’m going, I trip. The harsh, solid ground hits my knee as if I’ve met a tornado. I wince at the pain as I strain myself to stand. A firm, but careful hand grabs mine. I look up into green eyes shaded by recognizable glasses. “My dear, you are very clumsy.” He smiles at me as I pat my dress back into place. “I see we’ve met again.” My response comes weakly as the sore from my knee makes me flinch. “I don’t think you’ve told me your name.” I inquire. “You have not requested my name, so I haven’t told it. However, if you do me the honor of a dance, my secret may be leaked.”  He bowed and offered me his arm, as I timidly accept it.

     A new song disrupts the last, as new pairs take the stage. He walks me onto the floor, and diligently starts to dance. I watch my feet, not wanting to mistake my pace. “Lift your chin, my dear. You don’t seem to but much of a church-bell.” I looked up at him puzzled. “Church-bell?” As he tried to conceal a grin, his glasses couldn’t suppress the laughter in his eyes. “Your rather quiet. And most likely not from around London, are you?” I looked to the ground once more. Should I tell him or not? Will it start problems, or will I be okay? “It’s fine, I shall not expect you to answer a question you wish not to.” I looked up at him, solemnly. “I promised to introduce myself, correct?” I nodded, as the music that echoed around us faded into the next song.

      His movements were so fluid; he was a wave at the end of the day, flowing into the sunset. “Miss, I am known by most as William Anderson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He procured my sweaty palm into his, tenderly swiping his mouth to my fingers. I let my hand be brought back into the dance as I searched for words to speak. Once the dance ended a few moments later, I curtsey and murmur, “It’s nice to meet you. I am Lydia Olsen.” At my gesture he bows, and requests once more, “Am I trustworthy enough to understand why you are in a mysterious place you don’t understand?” My answer had been decided and started to splatter from my mouth. “Y…”









     The next sound bounces along the room, it’s symphony starting. My words mix into the noise. In my vision of the seats above, snowy dots shoot arrows in my direction. Blue eyes gaze down at me, their iciness piercing me as icicles prickle my skin. I exchange a glance with William, nod and answer, “You are. I’ll explain.” My discomfort is surely recognizable. I often peek over my shoulder above as we dance. The shadow with a glare starts his voyage through the seats to reach the stairs that pillar into the wall. He descends from the tower, only adding to my panic. My hand seizes Williams, as I give him an apologetic smile. We hurry from the room, stumbling over each other’s feet. His graceful prance, now a faltering wreak.

     Once we are outside the ballroom, I turn towards him. “I trust you, so please understand, I live In the USA in 2014. Not London, not Even in the 1800’s.” His expression is masked, but I’m sure that I’ve confused him. “I went back into time, from the future.” The simple words struck a chord with him, his glasses tilted off his nose as he listens intently. “The future? How?” even I don’t know how to answer such questions. “I’m not sure. I was in the attic with a mirror, than … ****! I’m here.” Confusion once again wonders onto his face. “I went into a storage room with old things, and found a mirror, touched a gem, now I was here.”

     “I see, but why did we run away from the celebration? I was looking forward to another dance with you.” His casual smile does nothing to conceal unasked questions. I’m not sure how to answer them ei
Tex Dermott Jun 2015
Duck Season
Opens on Toon Lake
Cartoon Man
Is ready
His mouth waters for roast duck
Horns grow on his head

Cartoon Duck
Is on full alert
Playing ticks
Scheming plans
Confusing his pursuer
Until the moon shines

Duck Dinners
Never come about
Cartoon man
Thinks and thinks
And finally surrenders
Waiting for next year
NitaAnn Jan 2014
Come and walk with me!
I take your hand and allow you to push open the heavy, creaking door to my thoughts.
Together we pause at the vast emptiness before us, creaking dreams beneath our feet, memories and beliefs casting shadows on the vast walls.

We move cautiously inside the entrance, tread carefully on my forgotten memories and dreams, their hold on me lost through time.
Please ignore the twitching corpses and further explore darkened, hidden, cobwebbed corners.

Gliding through the room, I pull you down, ducking as another thought flies through the air hitting the opposite wall with a loud splat then landing in the pile of screaming thoughts below, where they stay, awaiting the inevitable time when they will either be dismissed or built upon.

Allow me to guide you through the room, dodging the memories best forgotten, notice the shame and fear apparent on my face as we view them together.

Take a moment to scan the dark room, breathe in the fresh hopes and dreams; their bright bodies hung carefully on the sun drenched walls, waiting for the eventual time when they will be realized or floored.

Their hopes shimmer in vivid brilliance to the limited few who are trusted enough to view them. Laugh as you catch glimpses of the insane images before you, cry at those of more morbid times. Feel yourself being dragged into the moment, your sleeve being tugged at by a crying child.
And in the blink of an eye that same child scrambles over to you.
Pull yourself back into the present, realizing the child before you is me.

Explore the room further, try to avoid the tear filled pool, where all tears are recorded and verified at being shed…wept through time.

Stop and hover at the shrine of the memories of my life.

Images and clips are projected throughout me and are now available for your viewing.
Notice how the salty pool of tears deepens while you witness me recounting the losses, the pain.

As we walk further into the room, journeying through time, moving closer and closer to the present…remember to observe the moments and memories of time, suspended in mid-air, burning in a golden light.

Now witness the smugness…the only part of my mind visible now, its golden beauty being cast throughout my body, washing me in an aura-like glow.

The warmth of the complacency keeps me sane, urging thoughts to be formed, its magnetism pulling words from the neglected pile and painting them into pictures, parading them in the room until they are given attention and brought to life.

As we move toward the door, look over your shoulder at what you have witnessed the room now a hub of excitement, never before viewed by anyone.

The air thick with scents of raw emotion, its nakedness daunting and yet liberating.
Its shadow and mediocre existence no longer locked away but instead camouflaged in an attitude and personality of an unexpected level.

Pursued by many, their relentless banging, wasted energy, their persistence jamming the door further, while the rusted lock twists tighter and tighter, until the eventual breaking of the lock, shattering all ties with the pursuer.

We step over the threshold, out of the house and into the sun.

I close the heavy doors to my thoughts, and replace the rusted lock on my soul.
I glance over at you and you catch my gaze.
You nod your head at me and reach out your hand.

I am unable to reach for you… I don't believe in myself, I don't love myself.

But I hope that eventually I will find peace from the inner turmoil that has me vice grip, tightening with each passing day.

I look at you with desperation in my eyes, longing to believe the wisdom you speak is "truth".
Walk with me...see my shame and sadness, witness my hopes and dreams
Tammy M Darby Aug 2013
Off I go
To the ****** ward
For the chasing of elusive words
I round them up and write them down
A poet demanding to be heard


Using only a word at a time
I will never have enough
So here I sit in the silly ward
A word chaser
A nut

The more words I write
The more I want
It has become an insatiable greed
Words I must have them all
Not a wanting
An uncontrollable need

My crime is that I am a word chaser
Many cannot understand
So this is my explanation
As I scrawl with pen in hand

Yes I am a pursuer of words
And all the letters I find
Line them up
Assigning their places
I paint them with metaphor and rhyme

A word chaser yes
Without reservation these faults I confess
Though my hands are no longer tied
The door is forever shut
So in the ****** ward I will remain
A word chaser'
A nut

All right Reserved. Tammy M. Darby.
All Material Stored in Author Base
It is a curious thing,
Fear
It dictates decisions
Actions
Sometimes to our benefit
As we act to evade out pursuer
Sometimes to our demise
As we think too quickly
And run into our pursuer's arms
To be consumed
And left without a hope
Lovely's she,
Who shuns the shrewd pursuer.

Whose heart's unbreached,
By he who heaves in reaching.

And I am cursed,
Of this of coarse,
That my heart laments to leave her.

For this I must,
Commit because,
She shuns the shrewd pursuer.
Originally just,

"Lovey's she,
Whose heart's unbreached,
By he who heaves in reaching.

And I am cursed,
Of this of coarse,
That my heart laments to leave her."
Poetoftheway Jul 2016
<>

thirty years apart/making love at the midpoint/Zeno's minding the gap
<>

we are a thrifty thirty years apart

but we make love as if it were an
after school, really hungry, special snack

laugh at myself once again

for this tom, **** 'n harried foolishness
knowing no good can come of this
other than what has already
come and gone,
life's reaffirmation is not age dependent,
we love in the light of  embers brightest glow

the older man is at the midpoint trap of
Zeno's Paradox^

can never grow down to be
closer to her to her youth,
given his head start,
his slowing motion,
can never catch
her down,
or she,
up to him

physics laws forcibly insist they both have lost this race


"In a race, the quickest runner
can never overtake the slowest,
since the pursuer must first reach the point
whence the pursued started,
so that the slower must always
hold a lead. "

as recounted by Aristotle, Physics VI:9, 239b15

too quick to be born,
now the fastest and oldest,
though having reached
the equidistant point between,
will forever never be able to
close the gap

I mind the gap,
I mine the gap

for rousing poems,
from passion piercing fierce love making
prayers preserving the falsity of a
magic illusion of a growing nearness
that we will never grow apart,
burdened that truer is,
never ever closer

she asks me with great tenderness,
why I moisten mine eyes
after our great joy

replying, honestly
I am minding the gap
answers the broken joyous
poet of now, no way


<>

"Mind the gap" ( listen (help. · info)) is an audible or visual warning phrase issued to rail passengers in the United Kingdom (and elsewhere) to take caution while crossing the horizontal, and in some cases vertical, spatial gap between the train door and the station platform.

^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zeno%27s_paradoxes
Call to me Enchantress, Awaken!    
How long must you sleep undisturbed?    
What  forms will you gather in the midst of my dreaming?
Come to me  
Lucid waking life I watch for you    
On walks behind each bush, each tree through crowded room
At times our eyes touch, electricity courses from my stomach leaving through my mouth in small gasps    
But the facade breaks, you flee
I search you out and only during nights breath    
I run pursued by your many forms and faces... Ha!
One nights day I may surprise myself    
Turning to face my pursuer    
You!    
Please come to me, show your true self, lead the way
I saw your face in the mirror night last, vague and unpretty  
That time in the ice and snow was that your best?    
Remember!
I followed your tracks    
You turned gazing at me with yellow eyes before bounding off
Bending down, my hand inside the print of your paw seemed small    
A drop of blood red on a crust of ice suddenly convinced me of the reality    
Of that moment    
Tremendously excited throwing my thoughts to you      
I call come back...
Stoic, still, yet razor sharp    
Only the green haze from the forest remained
Another time I will follow
But in in my excitement I lost hold on my dreaming
Remember

Raven
difference between lucid and regular dreams and referring to her "muse" as the Enchantress, I was inspired to compose this.
Inqhawq Mar 2015
For a while now, I've had a thought swimming alongside my awareness, a fin cutting the water as I wait for it to save or **** me. Dolphin or shark? It came near enough for me to make out its shape recently.

**** or save? I know at least that it wasn't a fat guy with a prank fin and a snorkel. It closed on me and I realized what is most painfully missing.

When I am touched, it is simply that.

Dreamlike, my finned pursuer still refused to reveal its whole shape to me, and instead became the emotive image of a hand lovingly reaching for my face.

That small act of love is gone.

It means so much to me, that tenderness, that I ruined the last ship I sailed. I tore every beam apart in my search for what was just a three-legged spider deep in her darkest corner. So I burned down the good ship Treble and used the remains to float away.

I drifted to an atoll and chose a meek *******. It would certainly do, what better place to spend my remaining balance of time?

The breezes whispered and wouldn't stop.

Tides eroded and regrew my ******* until the even rhythm became inherently strange. So steady.

Evenly, unknown, eternity.

When the bottle washed up, I jealously guarded it from the *******. I should not have called the ******* Wilson.

Apparently Wilson controlled the weather.

Several gales and at least one hurricane punished my foolish hide. But the bottles kept coming, encouraged by the raging.

Shortly after, I learned to surf.

Well, I wasn't good at it. And Wilson didn't approve. It only took a little inclementation to sweep me away. If Wilson did control the weather, she must have been exhausted by then.

What a flimsy board.

It was my shield, held wearily up against the hungry ocean. Before my encounter with the amorphous beast, I was just drifting, again, unsure what quixotic urge took me so far.

And then the fin arrived.

**** or save?
The cliche about never knowing what is held until it's gone. It's haunting, harrowing, and honest.
Tina Kay Grant Mar 2014
TINA
The innocent pouty lip
The feminine grin
The Elvis lyrics
The yearner of scandal

KAY
The cynical, annoyed mope
The rock and roll
The sharp black nails
The pursuer of scandal

GRANT
The friend of mother nature
The need for peace and love
The flowy relaxed soul
The denier of scandal

and you wonder why I have a war in my mind.

My passions
My spirit and
My blank stares into heaven
Tell you that I am...
TINA KAY GRANT - The Vintage Rebel.
Call to me Enchantress, Awaken!    
How long must you sleep undisturbed?    
What  forms will you gather in the midst of my dreaming?
Come to me  
Lucid waking life I watch for you    
On walks behind each bush, each tree through crowded room
At times our eyes touch, electricity courses from my stomach leaving through my mouth in small gasps    
But the facade breaks, you flee
I search you out and only during nights breath    
I run pursued by your many forms and faces... Ha!
One nights day I may surprise myself    
Turning to face my pursuer    
You!    
Please come to me, show your true self, lead the way
I saw your face in the mirror night last, vague and unpretty  
That time in the ice and snow was that your best?    
Remember!
I followed your tracks    
You turned gazing at me with yellow eyes before bounding off
Bending down, my hand inside the print of your paw seemed small    
A drop of blood red on a crust of ice suddenly convinced me of the reality    
Of that moment    
Tremendously excited throwing my thoughts to you      
I call come back...
Stoic, still, yet razor sharp    
Only the green haze from the forest remained
Another time I will follow
But in in my excitement I lost hold on my dreaming
Remember!
Paul Mackenzie Nov 2009
1.

Innocent birth destined for a ****** grave,
Quick unplanned for exodus,
Once frolicking before friends,
Events to come, surprises to find,
Now taken in spirit and soul,
Toward creations living will never know,
Crying spawn,
Another lost, another torn,
Eternal black is not hard to find,
Young mind,
I've seen death,
Like an instant,
Like a cruel pursuer,
No reason, no justification,
No right,
Who writes this apt and confused thriller we call life,
Monotonous pain and lies,
Peering through the blood,
Unseeing eyes,
It's all crucifixion with a different face,
Stalking us all,
Hesitating,
Waiting for the right second,
The pounce of a tiger,
The bite of a snake,
The death of an angel.

2.

Voices aloud in eternal consecration,
In it's many forms,
The advice of surprise is not enough to harvest safety,
Among the prey, one of the children,
Behind the fire, one of the seeds condemned to expire,
Snatched from the light,
Arrived to early to feel the wound,
Disparately together with the truth,
And envisaged no sacrifices,
Reunited and peaceful,
Quiet and relaxed,
The death of a young life.
...............................
Ahuvah Elohai Aug 2013
I.

How stricken I am, my mind and my heart!
Even my innermost being feels ripped apart.

Really I know this cannot be,
Even a child could tell me this fact.
So why is it so real for me?
Covered in terror I make to flee:
Unconsciously, where my mind's somewhat intact,
Even deeper, I know, as truth flutters so distantly,
Dark, demonic death my pursuer has been and shall be.

Underneath it all I just want to lie down and sleep;
So desperate for death or for life, for something more than this limbo, I weep.

Fearsome forms surround me and fill my every thought.
Rancid smells and decay fill my mind's nostrils.
Oh the sandpaper on my bleeding heart, the rot,
My whole self the raging darkness fills.

This cannot be, this cannot be:
Hell rampant inside my soul and body.
Even a child would wave away the possibility.

Doom booms
Outside my window;
Maybe it's a curse the Enemy cast:
Anything seems death's shadow to assume
In how, by some strange ferocity, every thing brings me low.
No one, surely, could this siege outlast.

O the betrayal, O the darkness, O the anguish that I fear,
For such terror is not distant but demonically near.

Do I listen?
And rip my soul apart, piece by piece,
Reaching deep inside the heart, my fears to release?
Kind of like putting your hand in the cookie jar, this seems a sin
No worse than a small indistinguishable stain
Even though my mind cries out to refrain,
Soulfully, my heart sings out for the darkness to win.
Soulfully, someone celebrates that darkness will win.

II.

And yet...
No...
Darkness is not mine to carry...

III.

Truly, truly, I say to You:
Rather than live with darkness my only view
And injury my only feeling, my heart I send to You for sealing.
No longer must I be stealing
Satan's thoughts and “insights,”
For You tell me there is more to believe in than terrified nights.
Even the most scarlet can, by Christ's blood, be bleached white.
Ready, I am, for something new,
Ready to be broken for something of You:
Ever only stricken by the grief of You've had from the start,
Destined to hold Your Spirit ever in my heart.

Under the waves of sin, a stronger current stirs,
So deep within I hardly notice,

‘Til it rises with the tide to surface of the things that were,
Overwhelmingly victorious.

This current is Your love,
Held and lifted high.
Ever will it be my praise, and in the dark, my cry!

Kindness leads to repentance;
I find Your love leads me to belief.
No sin is unforgivable, by the cross You bore as Your grief,
God's wrath poured out on Innocence,
Does Christ over sinners weep?
Oh, most assuredly, over me,
My burden He bears and treats me so gently.

Oh what burden now I bear,
Fair weight of love, borne back to me as I release a prayer.

How darkness will be vanquished
In this love,
Surely even in my heart this darkness will be vanquished.

Beloved, beautiful, God above
Exquisitely adorns me with grace and love.
Lowly I am, lowly and meek,
Overwhelmed, heart in tatters, in faith so weak;
Very truly You say You love me,
Each small moment of healing grace, so lovely,
Does more for my soul than a lifetime of grief.

So I adore You, my Christ,
Oh Lord of truth, of grace, of all things bright:
No more do I belong to darkness, I've been delivered to Light.
This is an acrostic poem.  Reading down you will find the verse Colossians 1:13
Cities shrug
by safe harbors
   or not;
laundry hanging
on a line --
each moment
caught in time
by pen in hand.
Beauty flirtatious,
glances at the beast --
yet, there is
the uncommon beauty
languidly battling
the ardent pursuer;
(tangerine lips),
a bed of blossoms.
There is the invisible
   woman
shallow  beyond
   the bone.
This, too, caught
by pen in hand.

At once, political
   fanfare --
who's running the world
   and why?
Revolution's heroes
and the first small step,
later enduring
and correct.
A dear friend, from
childhood, seen,
'Ti-jean with his
plaid shirt and
   merere.
This all caught
by pen in hand.

The two old loves
yearning for green
   meadows,
lie down by weeds
   and tracks
as if in graves.
But, why not stave off
the hands of fate?
Love lingers long
if it is true.
And last of all, yes,
perhaps happier than
   the rest,
a little woman --
tame bird in hand:
no truer friend.
This, too, caught by
pen in hand.
Lucky Queue Sep 2012
Love is a feeling so powerful,
so consuming.
Men have gone to war for it,
gone to great extremes in search of it
and yet sometimes, despite their efforts,
sometimes because of their efforts,
love is lost or flees from the pursuer.
Love is not a material thing,
a treasure like gold silver and jewels are.
Love is an emotion, a connection,
an attraction between people that pulls
them together. Sometimes its a one
way pull, but it pulls and functions
nonetheless.
Catrina Apr 2018
Your smile is so captivating.
So sweet, yet with a pinch of mischievousness.
The touch of your hands,
Gentle yet strong.
The sound of your voice, sincere, calming,
inviting, sweet, yet firm.
And eyes that tell a story.
What kind, I have yet to read.
Haven’t gotten close enough.
Not one to approach.
Observing you, from a distance,
able to see your interest
in  someone else.
Disappointment rising,
too late once again.
Katlyn Orthman Oct 2012
Eyes of blue oceans
Hair of blonde silk
She fell because she was broken
She couldn't make up her mind
And she was running out of time
The pressure on her shoulders
Pushed her through that hole
It was An escape from her reality
To another
The rabbit chased the wind
While she shouted to him
She was lost in a world that
Couldn't be real
But her fingertips defied
Solid and warm
The trees bark seemed to breath
Everything there was alive
In the corner of her eye little eyes look
At her curiosity, yet unease
Is she the one?
Little voice squeaks
Be quite she'll hear you!
Another one
What could this strange place be
The trees were taller than any
The grass and flowers , many
The small rivers and streams all around her
Could this be a dream?
A voice echoes , like it's lost in a cave
But suddenly her body hurts
A scream from her lungs
And suddenly she's flung
And the pursuer yells,
"off with her head !"
I wrote thus thinking about how when life throws you surprises they can seem so awesome and beautiful at first until everything goes wrong, not always the case but most the time , I guess it depends on the persons luck
MyThousandWords Jan 2011
How can you defend the meager walls you've built,
when you're cornered
and working with fragile hands,
to protect a fragile heart,

when the pursuit of you has become too much to fight;
when you've run as long,
and as hard
as your quick, short breaths can take you?

You can't.

Your only option is to fall on your knees,
roll with the punches,
take the pain,
and beg for mercy when all's said and done,

And though there's a certain peace in
finally admitting defeat,

The scars will emerge, reminding you of your lapse in strength,
your pursuer's victory,
and the battle that will have forever left your fragile fortress
in utter ruins.
Ryan Seth Cole Sep 2022
I am surrounded by comforts and convenances as I pack the cub-bards, lining them with provisions. Some of which I will not get to before they perish. I pay no mind to the clouds that gather above my head because I will soon walk into the shelter of my luxurious home.

I close the door sealing out the pestilence. the last part of my home barricaded by all the elements. I seat myself in a climate controlled throne where I waste away watching the regurgitation of one talking head to another. I stand at once to pour my cup out into the sink.

I look out the window and see a horizon of red illuminated by the smoke and fires that grow beneath it. I close the blinds and I make my way to the master bedroom. I take off my custom made clothes and fold them neatly at the foot of my bed. I brush my teeth and put on my pajamas as I hear a thunder in the distance grow closer . I turn on my fan to drown out the noise. I then lay myself down and nestle the silk of my pillow.

I begin to fall asleep not quite past Rapid eye movement. I am then ripped from my bed. I am drug down the stairs pulling banisters back resisting my pursuer’s. They’re strength to much to my own they quickly over power me.
My finger nails dig into the decking of my lavish hardwood sprawl. There is no hope for me at this point. I then am hit with a blunt object and loose consciousness.

I awake with a bag over my head and my hands tied behind my back. The dry air and exhaustion from my screams make my mouth dry. I feel insects crawl on me not as an infestation but as a hindering concentration on my hands and feet. I don’t know what they are but they bite me like fire ants.

I cannot shake them loose. Once I do my hands and feet are  bound down by my captors. They shout at me slurs and demand I renounce. They beat me with they’re fist and feet. They grab me up and drag me down a long hall. I am pushed to the floor and then picked up. My head is shoved down as they submerge me in water. Over and over and over again. I begin blacking out because my body is entering a breaking point.

I am then drug back down the hall and cast back into my dark room.
This continues for days as I am being starved. I begin eating the ants that bite my hands and feet. I drink the water I can when I am being dunked over and over again. I begin to try and adapt to this tormented routine. I am far past depression I am numb and I am hopeless.

I am so lonely I try conversing with my captors. They don’t speak in my language so I try to make myself believe what they say back to me are kind and hopeful things.
They demand that I renounce in my language. It is the only thing I understand the entirety of my stay. I sense the desperation in they’re tone they almost seem sad that I am not responding to they’re abuse. I fear they will soon grow tired of trying and end me as a result.

The next morning I awake with a cold blade on my neck. I shout out “I renounce! I begin crying and shouting out; I renounce!” They pick me up and break my bonds and sit me in a chair. One officer removes the bag over my head and I see for the first time in I don’t know how long. Another officer hands me a glass of water and my face falls in shame and relief.
This is the real beginning of my torment.

After giving me instructions and sending me on my way. I …..

To be continued…
Small series. Part 1
My mind is a bull-fight, semi manifested. Half-realized and halfway through a lingering emotion, a hesitant atmospheric disturbance. The stadium is empty, but the perspiration of thousands of people still float. The enthusiastic screams craving blood, honour, courage; the craving for a childish narrative in which the bull represents evil, and the Matador represents the rebellious hero. The crowd knows such things don't exist. What they do know, however; is that somewhere between the

tête-à-tête

of the bull and the matador, exists a universality of understanding. An understanding that the crowd has defiantly given up on. So they do what we all do: They grasp at straws. But the crowd is not really there. And neither is the Matador, and neither are his assistants. There is only the smear of their bright, bourgeois garments dancing with exuberant flamboyance across the walls, in an obscure, enigmatic disobedience to black-line-confinement. The same distortion of form that occurs through the lens of a powerful drug; or the force of blunt pain.

The bull is adept with his horns, and their propulsion is fuelled by bovine testosterone. But his horns turn to papier-mâché, and the rage loses its direction, like when you try to escape some pursuer inside a nightmare.

And then: Revelation.

The amphitheatre is empty, there is no Matador, no enemy, no good, evil, no trouble or tranquility;
Only
Silence
Impotence

A confused bull, alone in it's thoughts, infinitely circling an empty arena, stabbing at a phantom.
She
Is a pursuer
Of Happiness.

She
Is a tornado
And when she pursues Happiness
As though It is her lover who loved her enough
To let her go,
She kicks up **** where **** doesn’t have to be
And Happiness
Is no longer curled up under her nose,
Like treasure
Waiting to be discovered.
It has scurried away
In the calm before the storm.

She
Is a Perfectionist.

She sits here
Imagining what it would be like to construct a poem
That would turn her reader’s world upside down
Or her audience
Or herself.
Because she needs a change,
A dose of anti-gravity,
A chance for her toes to dig their tiny graves in the sky
And bury themselves.
And when she is not satisfied
Like right now?
She gives up.

















Though sometimes,
She does not give up.
And she continues a pattern
That we might as well all call Self-Destruction
For lack of a better name.
And she really does become a ticking time bomb.

Let her introduce you to Self-Destruction.

Self-Destruction
Is the monster in her mirror
Who, every time she gets too close,
Eats away at her.

Self-Destruction
Is her fascination with blood
And her love of bones.

Self-Destruction
Is all the stupid things
She knows she could do
If she couldn’t take it anymore.

One day she will sit down on an unsuspecting airplane,
And she will blow up.
It will start in her head.
And her eyes will quiver
Until they roll out of their sockets
And her neck will shake
Until it snaps
And her hands will twitch
Until they break off
And suddenly her head will split in half
Her whole body will split in half
And the molecules that have defined her for over fifteen years will break apart
And her infinite number of atoms
Will carry the plane down, down, down
And the passengers’ screams won’t be able to lift the plane back up like helium
And they’re screaming
And they’re screaming
And suddenly the ground magnifies in the windows
And they’re screaming
And
And—!

She believes it.
She believes one day she will lose herself
Into the abyss we call life.
Snatched away into the wind;
One second she is there,
And then,
She is not.
Phillip McKenzie Nov 2014
In my dreams...
I ride barebacked on a white stallion,
Across the plains
I behold with vigilance
Where desert meets azure, sand meets sky.
There is no pollution; no smoke stacks
To **** and penetrate,
To change blue to violated gray.
The heavens are pure.
I ride barebacked on a white stallion,
By peaceful streams,
Along mountain ridges,
Where nature and I have communion,
There is no war, no rumors of war,
To depress and intimidate,
To make life insensible.
The world is harmonious.
I ride barebacked on a white stallion,
Among the wild horses;
They are my brothers.
Eagles and hawks fly together.
There is no hunter, no pursuer,
To **** and capture,
To infringe upon freedom.
The Earth is free.
I ride barebacked upon a white stallion,
Within my mind,
Into feigned sunsets,
Where Utopia is real to me.
There is no unreason, no absurdity,
To bewilder and unsettle,
To eradicate my certainty.
The dreams are real.
Your face shows thee an illusion of the happiness long sought by tears
of retribution. A elusive traveller of contentment lost. That prominent
illustrator of false satisfaction and materialism. Proprietor of everything
yet possessor of nought.
Envied forever, pursued by the blindness of the ravenous follower. Yet
not for such trivialities as love or companionship. That one jewel that you
have always required, hunted for over a lifetime, yet never owned. Instead
they sprawl at your Midas touch.
You repulse now, exiled by your own commitment to fortune and
eminence. Words of greed and fortune once uttered became truth, your
own prayers answered and for this you now recoil. Ashamed at your own
self-indulgence and gluttony.
You have seen love, felt its breath. Wondered at its divine beauty, yet only
through imagination and dreams can you ever lay your hands upon it. Only
through delusion do you experience the exquisiteness of touch that lover
and love maker shall ever feel.
You have endeavored to grasp its finery, strived to gain such knowledge.
You have precious trophies, love laboured perfect sculptures of the
untouchable efforts you have made. Entire fortunes of love surround you,
mementos, untouchable memorials of your heart.
A lifetime as pursuer yet never as owner. You have everything yet nothing.
Your only certainty lurks around you, silently waiting for its payment, its
shadow almost upon you. It has followed you for millennia with hands only
now making grasp.
As you await your demise, wrapped in cloaks of golden flake and covered
in sheets of ingot, it appears to you. This long shadow calls to you, clad in
robes of blackened textile, awaiting its prize. So you breathe your last breath
as death exacts its toll.
Posted Aug 23rd 2014 © Copyright Christopher K Bayliss 2014.
Sally A Bayan May 2021


*

Her heartbeats are imperturbable,
ready to face any day
blue skies, or gray,
with, or,
without uncertainties.
*
no words said, just thoughts progress
in the silence of after midnight hours,
her eyes and mind go far, beyond the
dark horizon, she's a bird flying early
morning...soars over shadowed trees
and mountains...well before light,
she perches on the window sills of
her real world.

in the kitchen, she fries sausages and
potatoes...her mind travels with the
rising steam of coffee brewing,
tiptoe-ing on sad waters,
then basks in unforgettable moments past,
as voices from far away lands,
and even those
who are long gone
still echo
and dwell within her.

she faces life's adversities with true grit,
is toughened by pain, by loss...and by
grief, that sometimes...refuses to die.

her happiness springs from shallow waters.
she regrets not, about her goals foregone,
content, that, once in her life, she had her
dreams...and wished upon many stars.

eyes and heart often wander upon hills
and valleys, she fondly calls "home,"
sun-wrapped at day, shadowed at night,
it is where her soul.....freely roams.

she is wife, mother, grandmother, sister,
a friend, a caregiver, a voice...a pursuer of
truths...all she needs to be...for the sake
of her loved ones.....she is WOMAN.

*



sally b

©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
   May 8, 2021
Sweet rain drizzles on fields of purple Heather.
You sit, watching through your latticed casement sill.
With this kind of pure, unmarred, untainted weather,
You can skip the distasteful daily ritual of taking your pill.

Then the sky clears, leaving only a damp reminder.
You can go outside and walk the misty grounds.
“Marco!” you hear. You know you must find her.
You start to run, while doing so; you hear all of natures sounds.

All in due time, the mist starts to clear.
You feel the Morning Star welcome you in its rays.
Thinking, pondering, it is clarity you fear.
You want to go back to the dark, where everyone else stays.

You hear her familiar feminine laughter.
You stop to see a tempting shady tree by the sea.
You are quickly reminded you must be quick to go after her.
You have to wonder, where she might happen to be.

While this game can go on for hours,
“Polo!” you scream in a loud raspy voice.
You see a figure, but the picture soon sours.
As you run closer, you realize that only you have this choice.

A full grown woman, resorts to darting behind trees.
To escape her pursuer, her courtier, her lover in secret.
But then she falls on her knees.
And tells you a secret that must be forever kept.
Jenish Aug 2020
From a distant village, where forest lining the edges, where nature dancing with wild rhythms, where human existence have usual conflicts with minacious wild life, I bought an unparagoned cow.
superbious gait
she glimmered in bright spotlight -
wild domestic breed

In that romantic night, where moon shy to pop out from behind the murky clouds, the queen in the cowshed spend her first night with the howling songs of dogs.
croaking frog's sonnets
blended with loud fearful barks -
greeted the new guest

As the symphony of greetings continued the night and the night after, I was puzzled and forced to look around to meet a vacant sky and under it the haunting darkness.
predawn darkness stood
a veil to my eyes hiding
mysteries of night

Unable to squirrel the burden of anxieties of my quizzical mind, I decided to stay awake to watch the cowshed and my cow under a splendid moonlit night.
mask of truth divulge
laurels stirred in fiery force -
a fine leopard leaped

My abstentious legs dragged back the fleeing heart, and I was rooted trembling as a pole left alone in a cyclone eye.
watchful twinkling eyes
stem the course to silent cow -
fearless mother licked

Astonished to saw the nonchalant cow, licking the beast same her calf, I decided to rend the skies for the jewels of truth behind this precious spectacle of love.
beast lost his wildness
under legs of licking cow -
Leopard lied there low

I took an assiduous journey back to her previous owner with the imagery of a leopard cherished by their benign cow, where I was welcomed by the most baffling story of motherhood.
the truth rushed at last
shivered reminiscence –
fed curious mind

Once a female Leopard lost her way to the erf of human dominance and suffered a pitiful end in their retiform, but before she touched the sacred stream of serenity, a baby was born to the hands of her pursuer.
crying cub was fetched
from dying womb to the barn -
cow turned loving mam

Until the baby Leopard transformed to riotous youth, the halcyon mother cow fed him directly from his teats of love and then one day he was transferred to a faraway forest as an avowal of the law of land.
objections obliged
mother and her son parted -
but distance was dim

Hither to, on every darkest hours of silent nights, the different son visited her foster mother to share his adventures in the distant wild and to cherish the beauty of motherly love and it continues even the mother was transported to another house as the uncouth son followed her to her new abode.
trembled with pleasure
flower of truth opened soft -
fine fragrance of love
Kimberle Killips Dec 2010
We're in a house,
Apparently ours, and
I'm smashing your things
You've never seen,
You're smashing my things
I've never seen.

A crack is made by your
Closed fist on a tank containing
Unidentified carnivores of the sea.

The tank very nearly emptied it's
Contents, but the scene changed.
A bear now terrorized the house.
Furniture stood in the way between
It and the upstairs where you'd
Find us hiding.

Someone fell through the fragile wooden
Floor, not sure if they made it.

Ripping the screen from the window,
We made it out, but the bear was still inside.

I was being pursued. By the bear?
Unclear. I knew it was different though,
For I was soaked and outside, begging
admittance into a stranger's house.

New dry clothes were found
In the bathroom. I found it
Strangely difficult to change.

I had to get out. He was in the house
Already. How does he always find me?

A station wagon with a man and son
was my getaway car. But I just couldn't
Get away. Somehow they knew I didn't
Belong there. We were being tracked.

Then ****. The car, the man, the boy,
All gone. What's left was me on the
Road with the pursuer fast approaching.
My dreams can be rather odd sometimes.
Vince Paige Nov 2012
if you have dreams like me

you dream of running. you dream of being pursued. you run down paths created by flights and fancy. you hide in holes deep and dark. you can't run. you can't hide.

the creature that pursues you has an indomitable will and is fueled with a indeplenishable store of energy. it doesn't know fear. it doesn't show weakness. it doesn't tire.

it is knowable intellect against unknowable power. there is no winning.

when i wake, i know the runner is where i am. the pursuer is where i want to be.

i am fearful of the future and energized by the possibilities.

if you don't have dreams like me...

i am sorry.
i woke from a dream of being pursued with this thought on my mind.
jeffrey conyers Feb 2013
Affairs.
Affairs of your husband.
Affairs of  your wife.
And when asked why?
You hear it wasn't planned.
It just happen.

But many times some are really planned.
One might not know the schemes being used.
But nothing just happens.
Not when one of the parties know they have a true love.

Once you show interest to the pursuer.
Then the game is on to succeed.
Some do it for joy.
Some do it to hurt another on purpose.

The choice words of we didn't mean for it to go this far.
Is the first sign they should have just been quiet.
For, how far must it go?

It could be the skills she have.
Or the things he brags about.
That started the whole situation.

It just happen sounds good to say.
Except, it doesn't ring true when you accepted the challenge.
Lust just pointed out your weakness.
That your vows was just words you only heard.

When the odds are great you're going to do it again.
Now, everyone involved has a hurt heart.
Especially the two that never played apart of the game.

It just happen, from a kiss.
It just happen, from a hug.
We didn't mean for it to lead to making love.

But when asked, did they ever tried to stop?
Then they get tied tongue trying to create lies.
Without talking about the plans or the plots.
That led to their lover's having a broken heart.
I chase it in case it is good
I pursue it because it is there,
if time was a cloak I would wear it with pride
I would hold it and hug it and wear it inside as a
light to light me as I step out,
outside where the monsters reside,
outside where there's nowhere to hide except
under my cloak.
If I fall then pride is to blame and pride in my cloak is the name
of the game
time all the same cannot be worn, it wears,
it tears at the trappings of man, naked and
**** time is always pursued,seldom caught,often
sought out,brought out to remind me that time runs
behind me and I,
the pursuer am pursued.
Is his work sweet or bitter
Door to door goes meter reader
Is he dull or clever witty
The measurer of used electricity.

With a torch and thick bound book
Below staircase down dark nook
Scans through the dust on mesh
With a face that’s expressionless.

Speaks so little somber face
Smiles no little courtesy’s grace
Notes down with just one look
Prosaic digits on notebook.

Is he a man with a home family
Or a mad measurer lone carefree
A wild pursuer of endless digit
Never known love never had it.

Still he has to knock many door
Stay a minute not anymore
Time is his arch enemy
Till comes night sleep’s lullaby.
Jacob Vogel Oct 2019
I know that you dont need me, as much as I want you. But if you'll only take a moment, you'll see my feelings true. something about the way I fell, the first time I saw your face. and every time after, just makes my heart race. I crave to hold you close, to hold your hand in mine. to let our eyes stay in lock, and know that all is fine. this life of chaos has left me, with little to hold on. but with your love around me, I know that I'll be strong. let me stand beside you, proud & strong & tall. as the man behind you, I'd never let you fall. And if by chance you did go down, I'd fall right along, so we could lay there on the ground, & listen to your favorite song. the songs that help you stand again, youd have my hand and all else I could lend. As the man at your side, youd now have my soul. and to spend the rest of my life convincing you, well that's my truest goal.
Warren Jul 2019
Let’s get the ball rolling:
Fractions and decimals form a hill;
A rock as big as a house appears at the top
And starts turning at subtraction.

Quicker now, here comes

Derivatives

And

Long division.

What have I done to provoke this improbable pursuer?
Miscounted decimal places,
Carried the wrong number,
Or did I just forget to underline my answer?
Questions dance in the background of operations,
The star of this ill-provoked tantrum.

Though it never catches me before I wake,
The rock stays with me until the next act:
Pieces of it stuck to my shirt
Like the Devil’s Velcro golf *****.
a recurring nightmare from my childhood
Graff1980 Jun 2015
Let us pretend
That this dark portent
Is a potent precursor
To your painful pursuer
The perfect person
To persecute you
You have no defense
Against this prosecutor
No safe haven
No soft heaven
No monster to placate
Till you find a safe place
Just the terror you wear there
On your cherubic childlike face
Jobeth Bufi May 2017
Ten, twenty, thirty two, I want to play a game with you,
Hide and seek, you may not peek,
Hello, this is your pursuer,
The game is over,
Yet I will follow, and see you cower,
Admire you more, just like a flower,
Weep, weep little girl,
You are my little pearl,
A prized possession that is true,
The demon deep inside of you

— The End —