A Remorseless Winter

A frostbitten morning heralds a winter coming.
The grass is blanketed by the grave’s chill,
where ice and snow meet,
answering a conquest of endless white.
A damp mist from a late dawn battle lingers over the fields,
unyielding and slowly swirling.
The land is covered with a silent blight,
a miasma raining down from within a frozen core.
Silent and unheeding, like an army marching from death’s door.
Lingering and terrible, the shivering tundra quietly marches on.

And thus it begins

So is this the beginning of the end? I do sure hope not.
Saw Pirates of the Caribbean 4 just earlier. Was quite alright. Got bored a few times, but a lot of laughs. Johnny Depp is as awesome as ever and I liked Penelope Cruz more than I thought I would. Barbossa at the end, when he is finally in pirate uniform again, was awesome. Same as the Tortuga reference. Sexy siren too.
Got the new 6950! Unlocked the shaders and upped the maximum clocks.  Now I can start my late driving lessons and improve!

Tragedy of Life

Such tragedy of life lies in that, which was once sweet and free,

Fated to be burdened by rigor and hardened by life,

Alas to end cursed until old age accepts;

Withered and wilted,

Until all that remains is a tragic husk of

What was once naught but fruitful and true.

Our Sepulchral Breed

Into the arms of desire, I bequeath thee from
A final frontier that no longer subjugates me.
Go now, kindred, across from the sea.
Twenty leagues in, obfuscated the cattle feast flee.
Harness the primordial calling, of our sepulchral breed.
Thus, ye blood thirst be sated, and thy desires freed.

(What do you think it means?)

Into the arms of desire, I bequeath thee. & Vigil.

Feeling down the last two days. Work is a drag. Hard to try and be fine. Yadadada the usual emo rant about being inadequate, apathetic and in need of recognition, comfort and reassurance. Embarrassing. As I told someone,

"One does delight in eccentricity. Nonetheless, I haven't been feeling fine of late. I don't know what it is and I fear it cannot be helped. Thus, I suppose something is wrong. Can't exactly point my finger on it but I surmise that it is a bother."

Convoluted, but I quiet like the sound of that. 

Anyway, I think I'm starting to feel too clingy for how things are going right now. Sucks. I know I hate reading other people's emo rants but I gotta put this down. Sorry.

VIGIL

Turned the other way, this head.

Fleeting irritation always droning around.

Some things are better left unsaid.

Each and every day, left dumbfounded.

Held within, with silent vigilance,

Burden withstood, only relieved when time first tells.

Nothing to do, yet to try and cope,

With all these dreamer’s doubts and hopes,

The only comfort lies in an arms berth;

To be lifted on free wings, when they’re destined to unearth.

Sounds good to me, Outlander.

God, I love TES.

The Old Quarter

Dirty streets and torn buildings sit among rubble from an older age. Tiles fallen from roofs long ago, litter the ground. Vermin scurry out of sight.

A withered crowd slowly walks down the street, mixed with the homeless and the beggars. Silent and busy, they keep their minds to their own, quiet as the old cemetery around the corner.

Bars unkempt, signs dishevelled, windows cracked. Wares sit in shops collecting dust. Shopkeepers walk mindlessly about their stores, sweeping dust away and whispering to themselves.

Sly peddlers creep among the alleys, whispering to uncaring passer bys, while behind them, drunks lie in their own stench.
Beggars stumble across the road, stomach growling. A baby wails in an upstairs apartment, her cries clearly audible over the silent town.

Then something catches everyone’s eyes. In the first time in years, everyone was noticing the same thing. They stare and peer at a man that certainly did not belong. Colourful clothes, gold chains hanging from his large pockets, he walked with his head held high. A smirk smeared across his face, the man pushed his way through the muted crowd.
Eyes from above and below, around buildings and peeking through shattered windows above, they stalked the man’s every step, watching him like a hawk.

As the man shoved his way proudly pass the people, he bumped into a young orphan in tattered clothes. The man raised his brow and stopped to look at the boy.
The child looked up, his mouth wide on his dirty face. He screamed, “Tax collector!”

And before the orphan could finish his sentence, the crowd enveloped the man. Within a fraction of a second later, the crowd continued walking silently down the town street. All that remained of where the man once stood, was his torn and battered body lying on the ground, wheezing his last breath away. Tossed aside like an owl’s pellet, he looked helplessly around him at a street full of blank faces. He would stay there until the last of the blood in his body drips itself out hours later.

The people would go about their daily lives, ignoring another corpse of an unfortunate fellow who either drunk himself dead, or lost himself in the streets of the Old Quarter.
They would go about peacefully, without whispers in the shadows of the cold deed, for who but the orphans, the poor, the wretched, would dare set foot into this side of town, where the exiled called home and fugitives hid? No one.
It is because of that knowledge, the residents of the Old Quarter can go about without fear of retribution or justice. Although there are beggars in the other quarters in the city that would hovel at your feet, the men and women of the Old Quarter are survivors, who do not kneel or grovel. This is a town, where people choose to live, where thieves and murderers walk by day. And only a fool would walk so proudly into such a tainted community. The Old Quarter, last bastion where dark deeds linger, has taken another soul.

EDIT: Well we were doing observational writing in class and how web could use that to help us give ideas and inspiration of stories. We went for a walk down the main road and I noticed how everyone walks down the street minding their own business. People only pay attention to the same thing when someone acts out of the ordinary. That, or when the police show up, and they did as some one was parking in a no-standing zone. Anyway I came up with this an hour later. Feedback: Last paragraph dragged on after the story ended. I knew that already, I just kept going because of the inspiration. Another was how the narrator knew the boy was an orphan. Must weave that in somehow. Also, need to describe and show individuality of the crowd; ie. reaction of the crowd/individuals when the tax man shoved his way through.

Tempest

Despite the ferocity of her fearsome tempest,
Peace finds himself in the eye of the storm.
Deep in the maelstrom’s centre;
Hidden by violent winds and a harsh season,
Beauty is found in the eye of the beholder.

Bedlam Asylum

Foreboding whispers from a darkened corridor.

Ceaseless laughter heard from a distance.
Voices eerily taunt outside the cobblestone walls.

Constant dripping from rusted pipes unseen.

Flickering shadows cast upon the chamber floor.

Wedged within a crevasse, a man weeps softly evermore.

A slow descent into madness, he further falls.

Insomnia, Her Name Is

I sit by the bed supperless, the room consumed by candle light shadow. No rest for the weary, no sleep for the troubled. I won’t see the light of day tomorrow, the dusk will swallow me in her bitter maw. Grounded by terror, I fear I’ll be churned out at dawn, torn and frail. Tormented by the lack of sleep, I am driven woeful by an entity hidden in the smothering shadows. Darkness closes in as I hold my breath and wait. I sense something growing faintly against the blackness.

It must be the Night Mother. Slumber’s bane. The Lucid Haunt. She gnaws at the minds of men, mauling and maiming, til dawn breaks her hold. There she is shunned into the cracks and hidden corners of the world, biding again.

The form fades. My eyes dart frantically over the room, and sweat begins to make its way down my brow. Goosebumps. I feel her presence again and around me, it grows infinitely darker. I begin to tremble. A cold miasma envelops me. I sweat. I hear the floorboards creak. I yelp. A festering odour emanates from the dark. I gag from the nausea, and try to remain as silent as possible.

A portion of shadow begins to form, perfectly silhouetted against the void.

I open my mouth to scream but my nothing escapes, my voice stolen. I see her clearly. She is here. I shut my eyes, helpless. The Nightmare Hag. She cackles.

When we were Young

Such is the pride of those once great.

When all that has withered and all that is, remains:

The yearning of a fragmented past and the clinging to days long gone.

When now is the age of the new and grey are those of old,

Which one hopes to relive and hold dear till all is forgotten.

Somewhere in the desert, 1922, Egypt.

We wonder the desert sands. Tempered by harsh winds and the furious heat, it blasts at us, a dire roar for us to turn back. We walk day and night through the endless sea of yellow, our feet sinking and dredging through the sorrow-less sand.

Nonetheless, we withstand the harrowing earth and force each other onwards.

We had brought provisions, although not enough for the entire journey, and nothing else of great value. All the treasures of this world meant naught to us, unless we reached our destination.

We push through the desert storm and through the eternal sands. We wished every minute, that our goal would appear over the horizon, and we hoped that no mirage would plague our waning vision.

In the past week, we lost a few companions to the beckoning of these waylay phenomenon.
Chasing them is to chase a bitter wind, taunting our poor brothers with every stumble they made. It was almost another week of endless walking, of parched throats and squinting. We lost another to the shifting sands.

In the end, at the final leg of our expedition, we began to feel a sea-borne breeze.

It lifted the burden of the desert heat, drained by the glorious sight of our journey’s end. It replenished our strength and gave us renewed hope.

We stop at the base of the summit and watched, mesmerized, by the sight before us.

Surrounded by dunes the size of stadiums, we walk further in into the Valley of the Kings, wherein lies the resting place of Tutankhamen, ancient Pharaoh of Egypt past.

We charge in, setting up camp and unloading equipment with a renewed fervour.

Today begins the excavation of this royal tomb.

Glory unto us. The unearthing begins.

Little did we know, what curses lay in the damp and labyrinthine deep.

Anger

Cussing and raging, holding it in.

Silent and weary, hidden from kin.

Hardship and stress, building these burdens,

Alone it's carried, solo it’s hauled,
Heavy and crushing, these shoulders are bending.

Day in and day out, more is consumed,

fuelling an inner fire, unleashed like a monsoon.

A furious rage, I’m unable to contain,

I thrash out at random; my mind I can’t maintain.

Bound In Meadow

Under a cloudy moonlit haze, faded into the light,

Don’t catch their little solemn gaze,

They don’t jump and laugh tonight.

Eternally chained to this glade,

Forever dancing, never resting,

The accursed little ones play.

In silent mourning, a face of
Sightless tears; they’re always yearning.

The closer you come, the farther they roam,

Fade when you've caught up, behind you they show up.

Vengeful spirits bound to stone, around and around

They eerily drone.
Chant to curse, a devilish verse,

For curiosity you baited and your freedom they hated.

Now caught in a rift, between shade and corporeal,

Eternally you'll dance, while everything seems un-real.

Their plighted curse lifted, they shimmer into the night:

Unchecked, unveiled and unquestionably unsealed.

Dorian Gray

Here it is where your body lingers.

Done the deed, in which you’ll pay.

Melting ink and burning cinders.

Set on fire, through smoky rays.

A perfect image, a clone endearingly rendered.

Paint a portrait, like Dorian Gray.

Night Sprites

Under moon-shunned light, we slowly roam

Always moving, we haven't got a home.

Our bane is day, and we’re slaves to night;

Creep past ferns, some fairy lights,

A will o' wisp and swamp-murk blight.

Through mists and caves, both alike,
Pass the still-cold lake in sight,
Come, friend, let’s explore this path tonight.

The Four Horsemen

Riders of ruin upon deathly steeds,

Godspeed direct to their destination.

Exuding evil and an iron will,

Never to be sundered.

Filled with unquestionable loyalty
And possessing a silent determination.

Disfigured they ride, slaughtering mercilessly in his name.

Pied Piper of Hamlin

Through a ghost town skipping,

A mighty tune I'm making,

Dusty corners in this ruined city, around the block I'm singing,

Empty streets, an empty song, like shattered glass,

I dance in time, as a pack of rats, come surging pass,

The place’s alive with rodent kind, the streets are filled

With masses of mice and a little man.
A mighty feat- he sings a tune,

A tune of woe, and with that-

The rats finally go.

A week or two, the City's alive,

In bustling hype, the peoples back, and rats are gone!

Cause the man named Jack, and his little pipe, sings a

Song, and with that; the rats have gone home.

Mirror World

Behind the ethereal veil lies uncharted, a world killed.

Littered and strewn across the streets, is a time where life runs depleted.

Crows and vermin crawl where once you horded your treasures all.

Beyond the veil lies a world mirrored,

One like ours, filled with greed, hate and everything is to be feared. 

London, 1888

Where in dark London night,

Do women walk in fright?

Where fearful of an aristocrats' plight of murdering in delight?

Down the wet alleys alone, she walks.

Through Ben's ticking she stumbles on.

Behind the maiden he steps forth, a hook in hand

And her bloody nape he doth wrought.

Alas! Jack the Ripper wanders on, seeking women,
again in thought. 

Tribute to Lovecraft

Breeding an anguish leagues below,

Churning waves of primal fury,

Fathoms deep where its’ hate stills grows,

Uncharted seas bore its tidal furore. 

In the abyss the Old One bides,

Below the depths is concealed the horror,

In spectral seas the dark one hides,

A dark malevolence seeps from an ancient power.

The Flame and the Mirror

An ember’s silent dance.

Its’ jumping shadow audience.

In a gulf of light, unveils a

Mournful eerie haze; and seen

fleeting, is the man in the mirror

Four Seasons

All the weather’s hidden measures:

Autumn’s sorrow in her final leaf,

Winter’s remorseless snowstorm,

Spring’s faith in his initial sprout,

Summer’s soothing first ray of light;

Grandeur, in the passing of seasons.

An Unimaginative Mind

Dusty corridors of thoughts, where on a table,

My mind’s poured empty, liquid words from an overused vase.

It’s a house abandoned, a yard unkempt.
Worn gears disabled.

Rusted and ancient, they grind in thought, crank and rumble.

Letters form on musty tomes, unopened in years forgotten.

Ink forms on worn pages, words fall and crumble onto the dusty floor.

A mind untouched, like a boarded wood; damp and rotten.

In a world filled with technology, the wooden manor lies in ruin.

No gardener, no tender, no scribe to tend her deserted halls.
Halls roamed nightly by vermin and crawlers, pests and mice.

Only their eerie skittering and slithering, are heard in a place forsaken.

Writer’s Sanctum

In an oval room I sit, with only a desk and a lamp before a wall of windows.

Behind, and outside, a swollen cloud slumbers, amongst a sky of grey and over damp grass.

In this dark room I sit, the lamplight casting shadows to and fro.

In the flame’s light, I sit, pen in hand and a story unfolds.

The door creaks.
"Who intrudes my inner sanctum?" I demand. A mew responds.

Merely a cat it seems, but alas!

Behind me a shadow creeps and tonight, my story remains untold.

Tartarus

In this morbid affair,

A sky torn red asunder sows beneath it

A season of despair.

Flashes of light amidst the thunder; acidic rain

Drizzling lightly on charred earth.

Where agonising and slow, the wounded crawl among

A new pandemic's birth.

Rabid hounds howl and maul the dead, eyes seething menace

and full of dread.

Sinister dogs sate a thirst of its inner beast; while above ashen sky,

Vultures hover- a frenzy building at sight of such carrion feast.

SIMPLICITY

I’m flying this red rocket

In this life uncharted,
With only some change and a picture in my pocket.

I follow white clouds, small rivers and dodge green hills;

But in my heart I know I need to stop chasing cheap thrills.

A Game in the Dark

A merry sun prances across a deep blue sky,

Boys and girls hide from the light inside.

Soon the dead of night casts’ an endless shadow,

Whilst boys and girls dance into a meadow.

In the spring of my awakening

Hi. Blogging to put thoughts and days down. So lets get started.
Bloody tired. Had work today from morning til just before dinner. Exhausted.
Finding out components for my new computer upgrade. New HDD, DVD Drive, some
thermal paste, and maybe a heat sink. Not sure if I need it though. Stupid CPU heating up to 90
Celsius on start up.
Excited about the new MW3 trailer and plot details that was just released. I know, I hate Activision and
Treyarch and what they had done with the COD series, but mw3 should wrap up the great storyline that IW did. Should bring closure to us all. Feet getting cold.
Should really sleep soon, got TAFE tomorrow. Shall continue then.