RamenOwl

My father's writing Scrawls across memory- Harsh cursive; That we all complained of being unable to read HCI + NaOH -> HoH + NaCI All these strange recipes for A masterpiece We never did see complete. We only ever saw the recipe. My father's writing We all complained But he just kept on writing Perhaps he was complaining back to us; as well. Perhaps It was his way of saying "This is something."

Darus was there. The trees were stark and black around the tiny, snow filled clearing, and so was Darus, figure crooked and threatening. Yet Kaylin was unable to feel any alarm, for Zephyr hissed loudly in her mind, suffocating her emotions. He watched her with a strange and tired smile. "It seems that Zephyr has guided you to me, Kaylin." She could not answer him. Zephyr buzzed, drowning her thoughts in static. Darus seemed unconcerned by her lack of response, but the Blade, held loosely in his left hand, twitched. "....You left me, Kaylin. Did you forget that only you can completely shift Zephyr from Guardian to Guardian? Yet still- yo

Even now You long dead and gone I can still see you In the lightning bolts across the summer-sky.

They did say he would be alright. They lied. The earth bled that day. I remember so clearly how it seemed to twist with every step, how it shivered underneath the sky as the first shot was fired- I remember how great, writhing snakes of dirt would rise into the air with every explosion- only to sink, spattering onto our faces. How, whenever a body fell, the spirit leaving it in a cloud, dulled by weeping dust- the earth seemed to shrink away, shuddering underneath the new weight. I remember how, when I died, the fog from leaving souls covered the ground softly, a white death shroud over a beloved's face.

Chief Haddock, leader of the 15th Police Faction in the proud and rather dirty city of London, England, leaned back in his new, uncomfortable office chair, absently thumbing thorough the file he had received this morning. Dealing with the recent killings dubbed under the name 'Virus', it was a thick file, filled with autopsy reports, witness accounts, possible suspects, etc, etc.       Haddock carelessly dropped the file onto the already cluttered desk before him. Personally, he really couldn't care less right now. These murderers were always popping up under names like 'The Black Death', or 'The White Horseman'

If He is everything, Imagine the terrible irritation. Every hair alive, quivering, Crawling with trillions of tiny Organisms,  rustling, dying, screaming, And billions more being born every day. Our universe poised, about to fall Off, quark bacterial things  That are unable to understand What   Everything means.

 say, what a ordinary sight. within the limits of 'ok', the shades of grey that we    Are all so used to. odd, brilliant, they used to say. Now, it is but disjointed, putting the "extra" in ordinary.     We have too        many geniuses. hark, hear the demons scream in delight at our intentional monotony.     Satan wears a badly cut suit      made by an half-asleep worker. an injection everyday, keeps the weird away. same race, same thought........ the radio hisses static. like Argus, m

Throbbing, repetitive-   Slowly now, like waves crashing against the cliff- Wear it away, a war story told over    Lifetimes. Do you hear it?   Of course you do not, Because it crescendos to a fade,   It is powerful in its sublimity, The softer the soul, The more you strain to hear it. Your heartbeat tells you-  go forward, you fool   Your mind(part of you, yet logical?) whispers "Step back, and regret not." Tread quietly, now. Do not disturb the slumbering beast called 'emotion'. It will rise with a vengeance, And slay your logic knight with its fiery breath.  

I see  Something that sparks the thing in my brain Called 'imagination'   it tells me to "WRITE THIS IDEA DOWN BEFORE YOU FORGET IT, DAMN IT." ....I have wars in my head. The soft grey tissue of my brain Is scarred and torn,       The dead bodies of ideas lie scattered. Very morbid;   All those bodies makes me go weird.  I put my  fingers to Those little buttons to write- Occasionally,I even use a pencil. All this...may be called vague.

 I.  wind moves swiftly- A black-plastic-trash-bag  reveals a twitching ear curious lamp-gazers  a question asked In feline language. II.   wind stirs along the   tracks- Sand billows, racing;   restless mane impatient silicone cloppers     gleaming coat of Sunset mirrored. III. whistling wind ever   so soft..... A piece of red tape  peeks out from a branch black button eye  fierce crimson helmet     a warbling War cry.