ThePoeticPaladin

Spirits, breath of shadow, defined by the light they are not. A figure, made by light, seen in light, but neither light nor form compose it—a dull reflection of form, cast in the void space where form stands between void and life. Without a source of light, there is no shadow cast, simply darkness. Spirits, breath of shadow, defined by the form they are not. If the form be changed, in shape or through motion, the shadow changes, quick as a mirror. Spirits, breath of shadow, they dance as darkness while we dance in the light. Should we wallow in sadness, they crouch beside us in despair as well. Should we enter darkness, however, we will find the familiar shapes of shadow gone, replaced with a shade oppressive, omnipresent and alien in appearance to ourselves. Carry the light with you, and remember the spirits are patterned after you. Without you to stand between them and the source of light, they wouldn't be there at all. And don't ask "what if I'm clear?". You aren't, you're

A hole-in-the-wall house on the hill, figures to spend that won't fit on any bill—blood into soil, soil into soul, Great Spirit benign tells me I am what I know, my essence contained in each seed that I sow because my pattern is whole in an empire of clones—the human race contains drones who create what they're shown. You are what you are when you're alone. The Adventurer's Ward Ten thousand strokes of a pen across the pad. A trillion drops of ink-worn blood must be shed. These are the accords writ long ago. Pacts made of piss in the white-vinegar snow. An ash-woven pledge made of fae swords to be wed and a million flakes swirl in the air for a show. Maybe the fire chases me—pages burnt loom in my history—but the art of the arcane is of mysteries—and out of my eyes a hidden light sees—crafting a story out of half-recalled pledges—memories I forgot as I said prayers aloud to God. I traced outlines of pacts with ancient forest species. I specified terms for novel ancient

Phone calls make us show balls, anybody who knows us has seen our name. We are what the gods seek, they know our lonesome souls. Each of us owns a piece of a divine manifestory hold. Curling waves of sound, each creating as it drifts down, revolutionaries design with their mind while empaths shadow their creativity. When we think we're alone, we discover the Truth; even what we discard returns to us before we can find what we took. There are men inside us who project outer designs, creatures of pure awareness who exist to shed fear like the skins of ancient wyrms. Where these men travel is through the hearts of themselves and the kind of their own. No one who sleeps dreams of their own, all who are awake live lives of their own, selfish lusts and selfish needs, each of us simply needs to see... What we look like to other souls, that which creeps us out is the "kemetic drone". Hebrew golems controlled by lies, vision-filled mud swimming through time, the mind of Satan hides

Dark lights burn inside Those with the Sight To see through humanoid shells Our skin hides our brightness and stain But the fire burns all that away Nothing is like Being seen through righteous eyes They reflect who you wish to Be Gooblygoos and juicy jews blood-rust rise of the missing moon godlust swells in the bones of man and muse Holding values, family heirlooms—crests remembered but not begotten are soon forgotten—such is the fear—ain't it queer—how soon after print we felt we lost the oral tradition? Vain worries of those who preach, those whose volume-enhanced speech has spread through society's waking dreams. The big bad wolf came back with brethren and with blackpowder know-how they smoked out a cobblestone pig. He squealed as he roasted without and within—begging the wolves go vegan until the very end. Godblood drips out of the weeping well, witch-kissed lips whisper Mimir's last words. Dragon wisdom distilled by the world tree—curses refined, blood of Gebbura rent

There are dreams and there are dreams, motifs of comprehension, a Desire to be seen, deep within us each, we know our prevailing needs, what it is to convey the essence of that which we mean—The programs write themselves, a script played out unseen, a veil obscures the secrets despite their gleam—we know without knowing, our sight transcends all that is real. Those who lack faith in majiq seek it out in others to, with faith, steal. Dancing lights and obscure voices transmit whims of those most foul and in the echoes of our DNA, the rage of ancestors rises as a howl. That all might recognize the wrongdoing of those ruled by fear. The Enemy seeks us out, drawn to the palest shine, seeking to snuff it out, claiming "Now, your light is mine!", bereft of inner knowledge, truly endarkened souls, daemons tell the truth when the conversation turns to goals. Like thermite, our minds crackle, a self-oxidizing flame. Our life-force thrives within us, such that in absence we find... What we