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Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 23 Dec 2006 01:35 AM |
The following leather book appears to have seen better days during its little existence. Its corners are slightly ragged and it appears to have suffered a few swings of a sword and smacks from a mace. It’s safe to say that this book would be much akin to a worn out teddy bear to some little girl, or perhaps a dusty tome misused by some mage who has no concept of book preservation. Little sketches of people, animals, and many ravens find their home within the pages. Not only pictures, but poems and songs make their keep on this worn book. It is merely kept closed with a leather strap with a buckle. The text within the book happens to be written in either Elvish or Celesial.
Page One:
A small sketch of Port from a few out at sea, underwhich is a song that follows:
~Siren Lullaby~
Sing. Sing. Sing.
--Sing to the sea which enraptures me,
A song men say, is death for the'
A song made to entice a mortals soul.
Sing. Sing. Sing.
--Sing of the Siren song.
Sing, Sing, Sing to the Siren
Hear, Hear, Hear of the Siren
Drift, drift, drift, to Siren
Sing. Sing. Sing.
--Sing a song for me.
Enthralling is the Sirens plea,
Yet you let her music take it's toll.
Sing. Sing. Sing.
--Sing of the Siren song.
Sing, Sing, Sing to the Siren
Hear, Hear, Hear of the Siren
Drift, drift, drift, to Siren
Sing. Sing. Sing.
--Lift up and cast away with me,
Is what the Siren says softly.
And now it is your life that she has stole.
Sing. . . Sing. . . Sing. . .
____
Page Two:
This page has a sketch of the woman known as Macha speaking with Juylina and Dorian in the Black Pearl.
____
Page Three:
A small picture of Tomi and Natalyia filly the bottom half of the page and a song takes up the first half.
~Pub~
Clink the pint and down it goes!
in the throat to drown the woes!
Poison thick like fog about,
every one does scream and shout!
--Woah, woah, woah,
The 'Ale does, Flo-ooow'
--Ayi, Ayi, Ayi,
These taps shall never diiie'
Er' the gents they piss about,
Never do they have drinkin' doubts
Swarm the pub, and keep it live,
In the night, these men do thrive.
--Woah, Woah, Woah,
The 'Ale does, Flo-ooow'
--Ayi, Ayi, Ayi,
These taps shall never diiie'
Take a maid, yer' lap is free!--
but not so much their pleasantries.
So out and in Laugh and grin
Drinkings' not a moral sin!
--Woah, Woah, Woah,
The 'Ale does Flo-ooow,
--Ayi, Ayi, Ayi,
These taps shall never diiie!'
Woah, Woah, Woah,
--Ayi, Ayi, Ayi,
These taps shall never die!
_____
Page Four:
A slight scribble of the moon and atop it a short poem going to the flow of a quick tempo much like from a music box.
~Night Life~
Moon low,
breath slow.
Eyes shut,
life cut.
Falling down,
Slowly drown
Music light
No plight
Drink it in,
Take it deep
music soft,
souls will weep
This is the night
This is the life
this is the sound-sound-sound.
____
Page Five:
This page has a poem that appears to be crossed out and some rather outlandish comments in elvish are written atop it. it's nearly impossible to read the content but it once stated the following.
~Juylina~
Miss Juylina, a rare rose indeed,
Her voice full of passion, wanting, and need
Dance of Flames leap across her head
Ruby eyes are deeply embed,
her skin of honey, her teeth of pearl
Her presence beaming, she'll give you a whirl. . .
Soft and seductive, her laugh is a tease,
never control her, she'll do as she please.
flicker of fire is lost in her step
nothing you say can damage her rep.
Her clothing aflame, as red as her eyes.
her gaze is locked always on the prize.
An arrow appears to be drawn through each scribble of "Juylina"
____
About Six pages are filled with nothing but random sketches. One of a raven eating a blueberry.
____
Page Twelve:
The page has a few masks drawn on it and in the middle rests a song to the tempo of a waltz.
~Masquerade~
Swift your feet are turning
In your heart its yearning,
Pace the rhythm,
and move the flow.
Masks are up,
your faces don't show.
Pose is locked, composure cold.
Shoulders back and stance is bold
a different life
beneath the mask
the social dance
is such a task.
1-2-3,
1-2-3,
Dance,-twirl-Dance;
1-2-3,
1-2-3,
Dance-twirl-Dance.
Still the rhythms going,
Quick Your breath is slowing,
Fleet your feet,
Yet anchored down.
In this dance,
For ever now.
1-2-3
1-2-3
--1-2-3
--1-2-3
1-2-3.
_____
Two pages seem to be ripped out before the next set.
_____
Page Fifteen:
A picture of a Troll sitting in a hoard of mushrooms dominates this page, and following on Page Sixteen is a song.
~Mushroom King Grog~
Down in a cave,
where men are depraved.
Sanity-
-lost
Perhaps-
at a cost.
Into this pit,
where a few toss a fit.
And there he sits!
--The Mushroom King-- Grog!
Dance as he might,
The men want to fight
Chaos-
-Reins
Away-
with their brains
frightened a bit
Grog offers a nip
they eat a snip
from--The Mushroom King--Grog!
Crazy they be,
to join in with glee,
Thunk-
-Snap
Crash-
into the trap,
And here he doth fall
and on top of it all,
he was having a ball,
--The Mushroom King--Grog!
____
Page Seventeen:
Unlike the rest of the book, this page is rather blank save for the text that marks the page.
~Tides~
Sweet sailing from here to th-e-re,
soft winds will take us there.
sweet sailing from here, to th-e-re,
and we'll surely, be back in the morning.
So alas my love, I wish you adué
But the winds say I must leave you.
It's the night which calls me now
and to the sea, I do bow.
Sweet sailing from here to th-e-re,
soft currents will take us there.
Sweet sailing from here, to th-e-re,
and we'll surely, be back, in the morning.
The sea does wake, the see does roll,
the sea captures, and claims the soul.
She'll bring you down, or keep you high,
You'll live, or y-o-ou will die.
Sweet sailing from here to th-e-er,
soft tides will take us there.
Sweet sailing from here to th-e-er,
and we'll surely, be back, in the morning.
Well should I lie and never return
I'm sorry my love, but my heart did yearn,
Within the se-e-ea I did live,
and for that there is nothing I could give.
Sweet sailing from here to th-e-er,
perhaps you'll never make it there.
Sweet sailing from here to there,
and remember me in the mornings.
____
Page Eighteen:
This page has a shadow image of what appears to be an Elven man, and is for the most part the page is covered by ravens all along it’s boarders.
~Knight of Mine.~
Knight of old, clad in Night,
ever doth thou start the fight.
aura drenched In light of Gold,
stance is High and always bold.
Tiger eyed, and raven haired
skin of silk, but never bared.
graceful steps Of timely jaunts,
breath so soft it almost haunts.
Fingers gentle upon feathered touch
never asking for far to Much.
an inch away should I call,
stands he shall, Now proud and tall
Even in dark times that crawl,
this knight of mine shall never fall.
____
Page Nineteen:
This page seems to have a chessboard drawn, and along side a slight image of what could be viewed as the front gates of Midor.
~Check-Mate~
Dark as sin,
-May the hunt beguine.
Light goes,
-Against the gray
Deadly the game,
-that will bring you fame
Pawns run loose,
-to close the noose.
Bishop walks,
-slaughters the flocks
White becomes red,
-as many lay dead.
Checkmate is made,
-the path has been laid.
It was the price they paid,
-for crime to fade.
And now they wade,
-in the blood of the brave
Yet still may Midor be praised!
-these are the end of their days.
____
It appears the next four pages are dominated by Natalyia, Syluné’s half sister, and another Elven woman who has slight resemblances to both girls.
____
Page Twenty-four:
The page has what appears to be the Broken Mask as a sketch and under the bar where Maggie would normally be found is a small little flick of text.
~Drunkards Love Ballad~
Hey diddlilly iye, diddlilly iye, diddlilly oh!
Catch yer' maid and ner' let her go.
Hey diddilly iye, diddlilly iye, diddlilly oh!
kiss her lips en' let er' know,
Hey diddlilly iye, diddlilly iye, diddlilly oh!
That ye' lover her ever so',
Hey diddlilly iye, diddlilly iye, difflilly oh!
____
Ten pages are devoted for sketches of random people.
____
Page Thirty-Five:
This page appears as if it might have been written under conditions which water would be present as a few lines of the song are smudged.
~Solo - Lovebird~
Envy, boarders on Vanity
to which my heart does pulse.
and vanity, boards on treachery
I only wish these feelings were false.
Jealousy eating at my heart,
this song bird, does but cry,
and when he does part--
from me, I could very well just die.
I sing a tale of sadness,
I sing a song of love,
I sing a melody, of all of the' above
My heart cries out, to darkness,
yet it turns its back on me
this pain, is all but endless
yet no one hears my pleas!
Despair consuming my soul
Anguish ripping, at my mind,
These feelings taking their toll
These vain eyes of mine will, soon be blind.
I sing a verse of torment,
I sing a poem of pain,
I sing a rapture, before my heart is slain.
*The book continues*
((Feel free to leave comments ^_^)) |
Me-ow. |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 23 Dec 2006 01:38 AM |
{( You write too well.
Also, sorry about last night/yesterday. )}
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WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 23 Dec 2006 01:42 AM |
((Nice songs Glad to finally read some of them But not a single mention of Doc! I'd think he was at least SOMEWHATLY important to her... >.>)) |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 24 Dec 2006 12:10 AM |
hahaha..I remember Grog! That was too fun :P
Beautiful, beautiful writing :) |
Trishy
Macha Sparrowsong - Song is my life
Coretta Alandar - Cleric of Midoran
Dekla Debena - whatever
Not all people who wander are lost.
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 24 Dec 2006 05:19 PM |
((Grog rocks, one of my favorite NPCs and you're so harsh to Juylina.
Merry Christmas Keenie if I'm not talking to you today.)) |
Juylina Komthya | Portrait - Priestess of Naruth |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 25 Dec 2006 01:17 PM |
(( Heh, glad you guys liked the stuff! So, um... here is more? XD
And a Merry X-mas ta' all I missed.))
Page Thirty Six:
~@~
I find the days to be longer now, that time has slowed itself for me. These feelings that wash over my weak frame fill me with horrid thoughts and horrid dreams. My body aches as I walk even the shortest of distances. My soul screams to me to tell me that my heart should not be ravaged so by fickle things such as jealous. My tears turn to ice and my heart wreaths itself in flame.
I am but a songbird, yet this songbird can’t help but feel as if its wings are being clipped. My mind wanders: Am I truly the lady’s? Can I call myself one with the wind when my heart, body, and soul conflict over all aspects of the sisters?—I need aid yet I know not who I can turn too, Should I turn to Alton for spiritual guidance? Is there a soul in this world who should be able to sooth my fragile heart, before it breaks like glass?
Even if I cry out for aid, can I expect to be heard? There are events going on in this world that far out weigh one soul, mind, and body. Can I truly be so vain as to think that my worries should be heard and acknowledged over all else?
Why not? --I ask myself. Are not my feelings important? Haven’t I done enough good deeds to start caring for myself and my own interests for once? But then I ask myself again; is there any soul who would understand what I am going through? This conflict of what is right and wrong pierce into my heart like a golden spear. My heart aches for what I know is wrong, that I know others would think ill of. . .
Yet. . . My heart takes the wound, and I fear for my life.
Sisters of beauty; by the gods,
Someone hear my cry.
~S
____
Page Thirty-Seven:
A sketch of a radiant bird in a cage fills up the page, color has even been added to the page, a mixture of whites, reds, and blues.
____
Page Thirty-Eight:
Another Moon picture takes up much of the page with text written at the bottom.
~Night Trance~
Walk me into a mist filled night,
Indulge my eyes in the moon bathed light.
Kiss my skin with a stars breath,
Make me wish theirs nothing left-
-Of it
Dance around a glade so free,
Savoring the moon night beauty,
My eyes do weep and my soul does crack
My ears ringing of words to take back-
-Of it
Flick of pain, words of malice,
Voices of old, voices gone callus,
Listen well to the words gone ill,
Or should you let them drive your will-
-Of it.
Night time trance will make you stay,
However, night fades and soon into day-
____
Page Thirty-Nine:
~Hydrophobia~
Blue is the color of death,
it sits and watches
it's folds of white ripples hit the shore.
A dance of dirge,
these tides screech.
One, two, three,
are the breaths you'll take
One, two, gasp,
are the breaths you'll make.
One, cough, gasp,
are the breaths you'll fake.
Gasp, cough, stop
are the breaths you'll forsake. |
Me-ow. |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 01 Jan 2007 03:10 PM |
Page Forty:
The page as a nightmareish picture of the one called Siel in all ther horrid glory. After stated picture there is a song that follows.
~S-Man~
The taste of candy,
it's so dandy,
--Sugar on your lips.
A vile smirk,
where shadows lurk,
--Sugar on your lips.
From Abaddon's Jail,
where hope does fail,
--Sugar on your lips.
A taste divine
on the sublime
--Sugar on your lips.
he'll offer a deal
a shake to seal
--Sugar on your lips.
Refuse you should
for all that's good,
--Sugar on your lips. |
Me-ow. |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 04 Jan 2007 04:21 PM |
She could feel herself running, dancing within the shadows of the Port. Hopping in and out as she weaved her dance of stealth. It was a different forest than she was used too, but a hunting ground all the same. Instead of trees, you had buildings, and instead of grass you had cobble. Her breath whispered its tantalizing beat rapidly as her feet continued their pace. She could taste of blood on her lips; yet not of her own. Each one of her veins pulsed with anticipation as she could feel her prey’s fear.
It was as if the weapon had just appeared within her hands, like some sick force unknown to her, it beckoned her on. However sick the feeling made her, it was bitter sweet. She couldn’t help but be memorized by such a soothing compulsion; she longed for it, yet at the same time was fearful of it.
The creature she stalked continued to run, continued to try and flee from her. His cries fell on deaf ears as he stumbled time and time again. So many times she could have plunged that sick weapon in her hands right between the shoulder blades of the creature—she wouldn’t. The fear only made her continue on, the power that feeling possessed, something being so scared and pathetic. . . He was pathetic.
Anger swept over her moon blue eyes, the haze, she could feel them swirling with hate and malice. Her heart shouted, and soon her voice followed as she shifted out of the darkness, that sick spear diving into the chest plate of the figure before her.
She gazed into the eyes of her human father . . . as he died.
***
Syluné screamed as she fell out of her bed, her body having already been pushed to the edge from the violent dream. The last image that filled her mind, as her sweat drenched body weakly pulled itself from off the floor, was the Raven killing the Songbird. Her breath was deep, as if she were trying to catch it after a long run. All she could do was pull herself up into a sitting position and gently hold herself until the darkness faded into light.
__
Page Forty-One:
A picture of a spear takes dominance on the page. It’s head in the shape of a raven making a plunge from the sky. The handy work that goes into the sketch of the pole is a pattern of feathers, blurred by the wind. At the end of the spear, there is a glass orb that looks to have a bird trapped inside; color was added to make the bird seem a blue tint. |
Me-ow. |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 05 Jan 2007 08:29 PM |
Page Forty-Two:
He said I was his love, he claimed me as such.
He said I was more elven than some elves, to this, I know as much.
His soft embrace and gentle touch--
Can he really be the demon other make him out to be?
--I can’t see it that way; I can not see him being that way. . . At least, not to me.
But others tell me the words he whispers ever so softly in my ear are just a venomous vile poison rich with lies and seduction. Granted, I’ve never had a man so close to me in such a manner; that is, if you can call him a man. Perhaps I am still just as naive as I was when I first came out of the woods that make up Ferein. My heart flutters when he is around and I lose all sense of self.
Am I a dying phoenix?—And if I am, what will come out of the ashes once I fall? Am I so wrong to feel love so strong? I would break the bounds of all that is Vives just to have him by my side –But tell me this: Why does it feel so wrong when he wants me to kill. . .
A love bird will not live if separated from that which it cares for. It simply falls over by a choice to no longer live, its heart swollen by sorrow. Would I toss myself to such a fate? My soul is being ripped asunder, I wish to make him nothing but happy, but at the cost of my own humanity?
--Humanity.
Humanity is just that, a quality or state of being human. I am not human, yet the world subjects these ideals and these morals to be all that is good. If humanity within me dies does that simply make me, Elven? Than what is it to be Elven?
I am but a wrenched offspring of a vile human who thought it wise to take something that did not belong to him. I am not a child by choice, yet one by force. Some would call me beautiful, but I have a hard time agreeing with their choice of words. Can something forged from sin and a lust for power over another be beautiful?
My humanity is ugly.
~S |
Me-ow. |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 14 Jan 2007 01:52 AM |
Page Forty-Three:
The page has but one song on it, and it reads as:
~Book.~
Bind me,
Write me,
Forge me to entice the’
Flip me,
Grip me,
Absorb my transcript
Let my title be on your tongue,
Let my passage coax through your lung
Let my pages open for you,
Note them well, as I know you do.
Bind me,
Write me,
Forge me to entice the’
Flip me,
Grip me,
Absorb my transcript
Read me once, and read me again,
Treat me like you just began;
A new adventure, a new tale,
Never old nor ever stale.
Bind me,
Write me,
Forge me to entice the’
Flip me,
Grip me,
Absorb my transcript
If you treat me tender, and treat me fair,
I’ll be chalk full of emotions that you cannot compare-
To normal feelings; for you alone they thrive.
Open as I am, I’ll always contrive.
Bind me,
Write me,
Forge me to entice the’
Flip me,
Grip me,
Absorb my transcript |
Me-ow. |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 05 Feb 2007 04:33 PM |
Page Forty-Four:
~In a Time of War~
In blood drenched paths we stand aghast,
The tides of war fluttering fast;
And in this moment we sit, and
Gaze as the fires make a haze
Over our cities as they burn;
These tides of war seem not to turn.
And woe to all that make up Vives,
How many have forsaken lives
Dropped to knees in defeated might,
What happened to glory and tales—
of right? Are these just the thoughts of
a romantics delight or are
there still those who would stand fight? |
Me-ow. |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 12 Feb 2007 05:53 PM |
Page Forty-Five:
A sketch of a lute with a set of broken cords is sketched onto the page.
~Untitled~
A Broken Cord.
A Shallow Note.
A Dreary Sigh.
------------------[Spoken]
[Sung]
An un-plucked tune,
Which makes one cry.
The bard’s role soon
– Shall die.
When a mellow melody
Is all she plays,
Her heart grows cold,
and often grays.
Fie! what a horrid fate
For a fey whose songs sedate–
The mighty and bold
But in this world, holds:
No revelry
No Joy,
No Hope,
No Pleasantries.
When a heroes end
Is suicide,
One runs out of
Things to romanticize.
And when the world doth bend–
All seem to break,
and within the souls of men,
Valor often shake.
In a war which last far too long,
One loses sight of right, and wrong.
And in this lay the song,
Of why the bards–
Are long since. . . gone.
[perhaps continue. . .] |
Me-ow. |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 13 Feb 2007 01:18 AM |
Page Forty-Six:
A small raven it to the side of the semi-sonnet.
~An Atalan Attack~
In the forest of the Darken Tree
where mortal men often flee
is where the battle did take place,
where fear was stricken in every face.
Cries to run were sounded out,
as shuffled feet dashed about.
Arrows flung and spells did swore,
many hit the parties core.
In the swamps did a skirmish make,
Quite a few lives did the Atalan take.
Retreat we did, and live we may,
but when will the Atalan become the prey?
When will Vives slash them down?--
and take up that immortal crown?
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Me-ow. |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 03 Mar 2007 05:50 AM |
Far too long, it took her far to long to write. She sat there staring at her book as the page laid there open for all, and as white and blank as Helkris’ fashion sense. She pondered a long moment, on the nature of gods, goddess, and the powers that be. She had seen a god in his true for to day, with all of his wrath and anger he could muster for the occasion. Practically damming his people, was that what gods were? So “humanized,” so full of emotion that screams out and demands attention. No, it wasn’t attention, was it?—It was pure anger, anger that something of his was not cared for. Despite the tingle on the back of her neck she snatched up her quill and made something of the blank sheet of parchment.
Page Forty-Seven:
~Aros and the Choice~
In the garden where statue and harp did stand,
A bond to be broken, and words of new land,
Just how will Ferein's fate pan out?
As hope mixed with fear, joins with doubt,
Some will go, yet others will stay,
Two weeks from now, will be the day
Some cry betrayal and others just hate,
However the card has been drawn and it is Fate.
With the princess slain and ties broken,
Aros came down and his words were spoken
His voice was booming, his voice was clear,
Aros' words lacked mirth or cheer.
He was displeased, all elves did hear
As the harp has been plucked and rang in every Elven ear.
In the garden now stands a lonely statue of stone,
The ground stained with blood where nothing is grown.
Within these ancient forest the white arrow will nay ward,
No doubt a move that Ferein can ill afford.
With Midor’s forces at her edged skirt—
And the Atalan army attempting to flirt;
Without their guardian keeping his watchful eye,
Like Minyaren, will Ferein die?
Two weeks from now, will be the time,
Those who have chosen. . . will be on the Ferein Shoreline.
. . . And it was left unfinished. |
Me-ow. |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 03 Mar 2007 07:52 AM |
| ((*applauds* Very nice)) |
ELVES! |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 05 Mar 2007 10:16 PM |
She mused with herself over the concept of what fires true nature was. She couldn't help but place the text on the page. She was tired of the image that such women displayed, so she figured this was much more suiting to those flame worshiping vipers.
Page Forty-Eight
~Nothing Beautiful: Part 1~
Fire like passion that burns to the core,
her flicks of flame shall lie to us no more.
its true intent is not an intense lust,
but something obscene like a fat mans bust.
fire is nothing like the passion it claims;
gluttony Is the only thing hiding in flames.
consumes and destroys to fill its obese gut,
only to expand until it is nothing but-
a giant Red blob begging to be filled,
its horrid hunger never to be stilled.
Eternally stuffing its putrid mass
excreting foul gasses as it does pass!
watch as It crawls on its tenacious tummy,
anything and everything it counts as yummy;
your friends, your lovers, and anything She craves.
she’ll consume the masses, as well as knights and knaves.
a Lesson learned About hotheaded fire,
its Massive greed should not be desired,
so should you fall to her Engrossing show
remember; water makes her get and go. |
Me-ow. |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 06 Mar 2007 05:40 PM |
And thus it continued, as she couldn't very well leave it as it were!
Page Forty-Nine:
~Nothing Beautiful: Part 2~
We’ve covered the rage and greed of fire,
So now the tale told shall be less dire.
We change to a topic of Ice and Snow,
Yet no annoyance in my words will show!
Let it be known that these words are not spiteful,
As from The Sisters you’re the second delightful-
Yet from your following, it gives pause to note,
That a few of your followers just need be smote
So these next lines of passage do not fret–
As it is directed to those I’ve met
Who’ve made an impression that is less keen,
and makes you ugly; which is rather mean.
So: ice will decay much like the flesh of man,
Just like snow will melt from salt; much like a slug can.
Thus, despite what wrecked wicked limbs time might freeze
Your innards and heart have been subject to disease—
A frozen carcass, rotten to its core,
Beauty has been stripped and the soul left sore,
Nothing but a puppet, left on a string
You’ve tainted ice, which is a dreadful thing.
So just know cleric, it’s the goddess you shame,
Her virtue and honor is that which you defame.
Represented so poorly is the goddess,
My words for her to hear are nothing but modest—
Yet should it be beauty that Cold’s claws crave,
Perhaps her followers should be more brave—
I speak not of murder, mayhem, or strife,
But perhaps a little respect to life. . . |
Me-ow. |
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Re: Syluné's Leather Journal
Posted: 07 Mar 2007 06:59 PM |
Like a bardic mind often does, it floated around until words came out.
Page Fifty:
~Nature of Gods~
His bow held high with arch of arm,
With but a flick he could disarm.
And like a mother, she is there,
Though keeps us away, out of her hair.
The other Three could careless,
Their battle rages to cause a mess.
The other plots and waits to kill,
Another hunts and takes his fill.
One be praised, for it is good,
All of his following think you should.
There is another yet--a beast if you will,
Not many know him, but still.
Another unnamed lacks joy or glee—
That one wishes the end of eternity.
The next is swift and always cheerful.
Another knows magic and will speak an earful,
Last but not least, we have the crafter,
Which one of these are what you are after?
It seems the battles of today,
Lack the spirit that used to lay—
Upon the field of life and death
As soldiers draw their final breath.
Battles are won not by the gods;
But due too mortals against all odds.
We fight for causes that we question not,
But in the end, what has that got?
Is our life, just a game they play?
A pawn we are to waste away?
Is a god truly a mortal’s guard?
And has their intent been marred?
When has a god lost its meaning?
When its people find him demeaning?
Answer this in your own mind,
And perhaps the truth you will find. . .
What has a god, done for you?
And in your heart are they still true?
This poem is just to present a query. . .
But now my words make me weary. . .
The state of Vives I often ponder,
But perhaps my mind. . . Should not wander. |
Me-ow. |
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