Last Login: 05/19/2013 7:02 am
Location: Chireiden, Former Hell
Occupation: Assistant Regulator of the Flames
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I typed, weak and weary
Over many a strange and curious page of articulous lore—
On my keyboard, gently tapping, suddenly, an inward rasping
Bade myself an inward grasping; grasping within my mind's decor.
"Tis just a notion," I muttered, "weaving in my mind's decor—
Only this and nothing more.
Ah, I can doubtless say, 'twas in the wane of May;
That from the mire I did lay, spit forth a comment so very poor.
Yet still I wished the morrow; —vainly I had sought to borrow
Humor from words thus shallow; —shallow in it's form or
Written without such predilection. Neither it was this nor
Attributed to something more.
Yet the silken, sad, uncertain air of my depressing burden
Like a heavy woolen curtain dropped upon my physical form.
Collapsed as heavy covering; trapped air unnaturally somthering—
Melancholy suffocating. Sans breath never had I felt before
Did I struggle to surface above— the air was never so sweet before.
Aspired I, forevermore.
Presently my words grew stronger, hesitating then no longer—
Unbeknownst whether 'twas languor, did introspectively I implore;
Still, I dibbled and I dabbled;— suckled the supple approval
Bestowed to my humorous drivel. If before I've been unsure
Now doubtless my apex led towards;— I cast aside, said I, "Unsure?
Ha, I shall be nevermore!"
Long within that ardure bathing, there I lain, wondering, peering,
Doubthing, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But, as physical laws perscribes: eventually, as all that does rise
Must fall downward to it's demize— I was no expection. To the floor
I fell like a bird sans wings; my footing gone, stand I on what floor?
Falling, the winds whispered, "What more?"
Like light, through flung open shutters; upon Epiphany I flutter,
Flit, my fall to break, like butterflies by the millions in yonder lore.
Through fire and ice doth unction I passed;— farewell, comments section.
But let I conclude my diction; my audience, I musn't bore.
Let my lips cease to tell of that melancholy burden bore;—
I bid thee farewell— nothing more.
"No, what you have are bullets, and the hope that when your guns are empty, I'm no longer standing, because if I am... you'll all be dead before you've reloaded."