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Literature Text
The eerie calm wafting across the plains.
Smells of molten iron and gunpowder.
The murmuring of metal clad warriors marching to a singular goal.
The air is still, dread hangs triumph over the environment.
Each faction stands glaring across to each other.
The first to move loses? Or the last to respond?
The call is heard, the field erupts in an adrenaline filled frenzy.
Clanking and scrapping metals as the armored warriors charge forward.
Battle cries heard miles around as it reaches torrential levels.
The factions impact at the epicenter.
Steel against steel rings out.
Metal against metal, metal against flesh.
The scent of sweat and blood covers everything.
Lives scream out as they are taken early.
Glory to be found amongst the standing.
The air returns to an eerie calm.
As the dust settles who will be left.
Wars of the heart or mind are a trifling matter.
Smells of molten iron and gunpowder.
The murmuring of metal clad warriors marching to a singular goal.
The air is still, dread hangs triumph over the environment.
Each faction stands glaring across to each other.
The first to move loses? Or the last to respond?
The call is heard, the field erupts in an adrenaline filled frenzy.
Clanking and scrapping metals as the armored warriors charge forward.
Battle cries heard miles around as it reaches torrential levels.
The factions impact at the epicenter.
Steel against steel rings out.
Metal against metal, metal against flesh.
The scent of sweat and blood covers everything.
Lives scream out as they are taken early.
Glory to be found amongst the standing.
The air returns to an eerie calm.
As the dust settles who will be left.
Wars of the heart or mind are a trifling matter.
Literature
Hollow
Here amidst the bones bleached white,
the echoes become trapped in ribcages
like a heartbeat.
But it’s just a sound.
No blood pumps through the
marrow thick like
baby’s breath-
flowers for someone who is sick or dying or
dead.
No light shines
under the skin and muscle.
How dark it must be for the
delicate, fleshy bits underneath.
The lungs don’t know when it’s time to
go. No moon to guide them.
How do they know when to
stop?
Does the heart even know the color
of blood?
Literature
Grief
The writer defies the empty page, and tears streaks of bitter frustration leaves his soul with a sigh of grief. He tries and tries and never bears fruit to anything. But his mind is troubled, his hands old, his eyes strained, Rage pours into his heart as peace and contentment leave his world. These frustrations only bear down upon us. He walks around his empty house as memories of sorrow arresting his once young heart weighs down upon him once again. The writer, now tired for the night with no fruition of his work goes straight to bed. He has a dream, a dream of wonder, excitement, passion. "AN INSPIRATION" he presumes. He wakes up in a flurr
Literature
Night Terrors
The silence weighs heavily,
expanding around me, fog
I can't escape. The light
sweetness of the day, gone,
replaced by ugly loneliness
that whispers lies that could
almost be half-truths in the dark.
The blanket touches my skin,
irritant, my body writhes against
the tyranny of the sheets,
a lockbox of restless energy.
Lethargy replaced by wide-eyed
paranoia, a litany of worst case
scenarios, worries, what ifs.
My brain runs and runs and runs
until it overheats. I pass out in
a confused tangle of bed linens
and sweat, brow furrowed deep,
waiting for you to come home
to quiet the demons and make
it smooth once more.
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