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Children of Winter
Three winters, three winters, three winters; they come
The long winter and its children walk the world
We pathfinders, we wardens, we wraiths
We children of the long winter
The vastness of the cold imposes itself on anyone caught within, but not us.  Never us.
Winter is the only home and mother we know.  Life has taught us that; we live as wraiths do.
Flickering shadows out on the ice.  We dance for you as you wander our lands, and we point.
Guide posts and guardians.  At once your shelter, and the one who could damn you.  Can you see?
We're so close, and yet we are not.  Come close and be chilled.  Ice blood is in our veins.
And yet we cry warm tears for that which has been lost.
Humanity is a sweet gift that everyone squanders.  We never got the chance.
The Fates clipped our threads, but did not cut them.  Living death.  Emptiness and the winter fill us.
You, the guided, think us salva
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Purposes, version 2.0
I have a purpose. One simple sentence is all it takes to reaffirm my right to exist, but what is a purpose? The answer to that question varies across countries, communities, and even families. Everyone ends up looking for a purpose in their life though. Some people find a purpose in an orthodox theology, while others chose to seek their purpose outside of theology. While the two groups disagree on many things, they can agree that everyone needs a purpose. I believe that a purpose has four separate layers: biological, intellectual, "spiritual," and the transitory purposes we adopt throughout life. When all four are put together, I believe that a suitable answer is found to the question, "What do I exist to do?" Science brought forward the idea of a biological layer, which makes it the newest and the second most controversial.
The biological layer of a purpose is easily cast aside by many, because it has the fewest potential answers. Usually the purpose of any animal is to reproduce. Man
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Rarae Aves
“There he goes. One of God's own prototypes. Some kind of high powered mutant never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die.” – Hunter S. Thompson
How many?
A Few.
Are they still lost?
Always waiting to be found.
Shall we expect them home for supper?
Never before the chill wind blows down for the north.
Yeah, I saw him.  Wanderin’ down past the 7-11.
Never can tell much ‘bout him.
Just somethin’ there, somethin’ that follows.
It worries me when that boy comes around.
Little bugs run across your temporal lobe.
Yeah, I saw him.  Wanderin’ down past the 7-11.
Lost.  Wander.  One.  Few.  Many?
I don’t know the answers.
Old words ring in my head:
Ancient relics through modern fears.
Wait, does it even really matter if I know?
I want a slurpee, but that weirdo is staring again.
Higher.  I want to go higher.  I want to fly.
Flee th
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Mature content
Damn you, S. T. Coleridge :iconshoresome:Shoresome 1 5
Photo Exercise
Yeah, you’ve got so much to look forward to, so much that you wouldn’t believe me
I’d tell you but then that’d be a paradox, well you’d understand, but you wouldn’t
Keep on going, keep on going things have just gotten good, we’re leaving
So soon I can taste it, and I’ll be free; I’ll be freer than all the rest
I’ve got my quiet little secret locked inside my head; they dread
Something new has led me here, and people are quite strange
Lost, oh cr-no, that’s bad.  But I’m going to be so lost.
Peace.  This isn’t shunning, they are afraid of…me.
I can’t go on, oh help me, this is too much.  I-
I need to return this book.  I like it.
Why can’t I go back?  Buttons.
I’ve got quite a collection.
Dinosaurs.  I’ll win this.
Who will I be?
Thrown out.
Discarded like trash.
I’ve no use for such toys.
Little boy? 
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Chop Box Exercise
Poem One
a foppish medallion
of drunken St. Christopher
a vodka cascade
volunteers inebriation
coating the costumed linoleum
apologizing for his sobriety
Poem Two
no genuine sheared sheep
economic, political--shaded contraptions
crowd lost, resignation showing
eroded settlements close school
committed store's last year
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“Cold,” I said, bemoaning the lack of a fire.
“Stone’s like that.”
A second voice made my eyes shoot open, though it was an exercise in futility in the darkness of the oubliette.  My fingers scrabbled feverishly over the hewn stone, seeking the source of the second voice.  After barely five seconds, they sent something unusually smooth skittering away from me.  I was glad I couldn’t see for the moment.
“Colder, colder, no wait, getting warmer,” the voice taunted.
The floor bit as my fingertips as they slid over what I assumed was crushed glass, but I kept searching.  All of the movement only served to aggravate the pain in my side.  My side.  I hadn’t wanted to think about that.  If there had been any light, I could have seen the foot long spike of iron, slick with blood…my blood.  What had I done anyway?  How long had I been down here?  
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An Unknown Word
For this I have no word, which is a trifle absurd
My mind has found unknown feeling, leaving part of me reeling
Happiness is its one law, and it leaves another part of me in awe
I cannot understand all the things in my head, it makes me dread
With a nature so greatly divided, and an argument so one-sided
How did I miss it?  Is this a symptom of my failing wit?
This thing is an oddity to an eccentric, and to it no word will stick
Fancy flee, fancy free
It flickers like a candle, its law, like a ghost, I cannot handle
Is such a kind connection little more than a sweet confection?
I've had hard questions before, but it seems I was due for more
Though I know not where I stand, please, lend your hand
The final answer shall remain uheard, until I find the unknown word
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Who has slain you, dear friend
Who has slain you, dear friend?
I see naught, but a bloody mess
Where is the criminal?  I'll make him confess!
You moan as your limbs crack to madman's cry
Please, dear friend, do not die
A week ago you dressed in clothes colored by expensive dye
But now, oh now, your hair is like blood
As you both crumble it seems an obscene flood
Pooling, ever pooling, it spreads around you
Who has slain you, dear friend?
I would have made amends, but wait...
A soft breeze loosens your tongue
And provides a final gasp for a lung
It was your mistress?
I should not distress?
Though now you bleed, moan, and die
I should not weep for you?  I should not cry?
Ahhhh...I think I see your mistress' ways
I shall not mourn the following days
Though bloody, and broken you die
When first warmth comes, I'll help you reach the sky
For now, rest
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Summer Snow
"Hehehe," Sara giggled, "So who is it?  I see dust!"
"What?" Thomas asked, rubbing his chin quickly.
"Dandelion dust on your chin means you're in love, didn't you know that?" Sara asked.
"I'm surprised the flower wasn't stuck given how hard you shoved it against my chin!" Thomas said.
The two looked at each for a moment and then burst out laughing.  Sara and Thomas had grown up two houses apart in the small town.  This joke had been going on for as long as either of them could remember.  It had actually started when they had entered the sixth grade, and Sara had heard about the 'mystic' properties of dandelion 'dust.'  Every summer since that time, when the two went out for walks to talk about things, Sara had brushed Thomas' chin with a dandelion.  And every summer, Thomas had reacted the same way.  They were sophomores, a few weeks away from becoming juniors at their local high school when the classes began to meet
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The Scribe Scrolls - Prologue
Take a moment and think about the world. Asking what comes to mind is a futile gesture, but asking what you used to make your thoughts able to be communicated is not. You used words. What language you used isn't the point, but the fact that your final response to my words returned as words. Words and language are important. They are the method through which we communicate beyond the subtle signs given off by movement and temperament. This is a great deal of importance to place on something so simple as words.
Words deserve this importance though. They have a vast power that is used by people everyday. This power is used so frequently that we don't think about it. We choose what words we say for the best effect, we give detail to make others 'see' what we are describing, and we even use words to explain how we feel to someone. Words are the tools of a creator.
Words have been used to forge nations, bind people together, to keep track of stories, and to record life. Words can lead to man
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The Journey
To you I must ask a favor, O muse
My brain has blow a fuse
To you purveyor of dreams
Which are then shortly committed to reams
Guide my hand and make the hero tall
And let my words not be interrupted by a cellular call.
Our hero stood near a plain of ice
He had tried to cross it not once, but thrice!
Despite these failures he stood proud
And watched briefly as a passing cloud
Obscured the great burning life-giver hid,
The hero of which to be rid.
Our hero was stalwart and refused to be bested,
And soon enough he felt well-rested.
A cunning plan came creeping into his mind
And he soon produced tools in kind:
Stakes sharp as brilliant teeth
Were promptly removed from a sheathe
Along the way he drove them into the ground
And finally purchase found.
Across the vast frozen land our hero set,
But the land laughed at the hero and a secret kept.
The vicious ground crunching below him
The hero sighted a distant cave from which issued light dim.
A hideous crunching, crinkling, and crackling
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The Departure of the Wolfbanes
The snow fell in wet, heavy flakes from the sky, sticking to everything in its path and painting the world a uniform white.  It made the lands look clean for the first time in months.  The burnt trees cracked occasionally as the cold froze their insides and the snow weighed down their branches, but they held.  Nature also saw fit to lay a freezing shroud over the graves, barely settled, and the dead themselves restless after their own fashion.  The sun peeked gingerly over the tree line and cast its searing gaze down upon a ruined castle.
It hadn't always been in such poor shape, it had even been lived in until earlier that day.  But now the few survivors of the massacre within the walls were leaving.  Leaving the bloodstained stones, the horrid cries that echoed from within their souls in the depths of the night, and the graves of their kindred.  They were leaving behind the siblings, parents, cousins, children, nep
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To the End
Look down that path, straight as a squiggle a child drew
Far in the distance you'll see that which is due to you and me
That long dark road leads to something from which all humans flee
At the end of that road is our own mortality
I walk this road and within myself I stew
I can see the vast horde, but I walk alone
Shrugging past this and that, trudging on carrying the heart of stone
I know I am one of the few to hear the clicking of bone
You say I have a heart of stone
I say I walk my path alone
You say within me emotion is blotted
I say even on a heart of stone tears can be spotted
I look at my silent company and sigh
They aren't truly silent, in truth they babble
A vast senseless rabble
Blinder than the blind who are forced along the road to scrabble
Do these people not know at the end they die?
One smells milk, one smells honey
Another predicts a land forever sunny
"Slaves we are not," they say; their prayer to money
You say I have a heart of stone
I say I walk my path alone
You say
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The Beach Set
I see that which is unseen
It all unfolds before me like a dream
To others it is insubstantial and unreal
That is untrue this I can feel
The beauty of dragon's flight
The earthen golem's might
The sight of unicorn's grace
A dwarf wielding a mace
A mage's ancient tomes
The curiousity of gnomes
The unrivaled craftmenship of the elves
To find all this into books of lore I need not delve
I need only close my eyes and throw of reality's choking grip
To visit the land on a short trip
To find this land you need not a spell
Just a wish to visit where the creatures of lore do dwell
Sometimes I wish I was elsewhere...
People are so caught up in the history of the wall of Berlin
That they've forgotten dear old Merlin
Today only horses are born
Gone are the days of the unicorn and its horn
Fires rage, arsonists to blame
What has become of the phoneix reborn in flame
In the air jets and planes do soar
Gone are the last echos of dragon's roar
Mediums are frauds and ghosts just cut
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The Tower
See the tower, there it does stand
Once a home of a soul glorious and grand
Gaze upon the lofty peak
Think of the phantoms within that do sneak
Long ago a young prince called it home
It is from this place that he did roam
Off and out to meet the world of bright hue
Glancing back only once to see the windows like glistening dew
Now the young prince, at the world he had smiled
Never noticing that in the end demons he riled
He chased the scholars around
Searched through the tomes that could be found
Sitting about a great heap
And lying between covers in sleep
Thus the young prince learned
While anger in the demons' stomachs churned
Deep in their dark abyss
They determined the way to set something amiss
From then on when the young prince chased the scholars
The demons sent after him word-filled collars
They choked the young prince and stopped his vision
In the end he fled from the demonic derision
Back to the tower high
It was when the siege began that the end drew nigh
The demons poured h
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Dreamed It, Wrote It
United States
Favourite genre of music: Classic Rock/Classical
Favourite cartoon character: Zim, Grim, and Genie (Yes, I'm disappointed it didn't rhyme too.)
Personal Quote: A B.A. in English is a BS in everything.


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LyndseyLittle Featured By Owner Oct 5, 2009  Professional General Artist
Thank you for the favorite :3 I am trying to improve in digital arts
catclaw200 Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2009
Just wanted to say hello. I'll take a look around later if I get the chance.
LyndseyLittle Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2009  Professional General Artist
Thank you for the favorite, my friend :)
Shoresome Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2009
It was most deserved. :)
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