The Evoloution of the Word

A reason to write, a time to share and a mind to explore

Ghost of a Shadow

Words, poems and writing are as permanent as the sands of time, always there and ever present but constantly shifting.

We may change our method of interaction from folk tales, myths and old wives tales to trading books and articles on the internet; and the delivery has become more widespread and global compared to isolated villages finding out world events from travellers and bards. But mankind will always crave the written word, whether they download it onto their kindle or follow a blog or two, as the forums within which we discuss and share written works evolve to match.

Even the language evolves to fit the generation it serves with as much shock, revolution or praise it may be met with, who can say the translation of the bible from Latin to the language of the people or the very first printing press were not as revolutionary then, and transformed the established norm as for us it is the passing from printed paper to…

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A Dream of a Nightmares Dream

A frog sings in the pond, the crows call from the trees and my mind screams with lost hope

Ghost of a Shadow

I look upon the ashes of my life as a phoenix of death consumes what hope has left

The desert stretches outward as into the endless void the sands are spread

Underground rivers harbour my darkened breathe upon which word is carried of my death

Demons dance in teardrops with the merriness of a reapers touch

A landscape blackened by the tendrils of the arid storm with unseen depth

Yet it is tame when the phantoms blades are readied for the battle yet

I do not fear

I do not feel

I do not love

I am immune to the soothing call of heavens dove

Dreams echo nightmares

Nightmares reflect the expanding gulf

The purpose of these words are as hidden as my insanities ultimate bluff

The players upon its table all locked into the cycles descending luck

Now the day is calling me

So awake


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I Am

Digging up some of my original posts

Fresh light on old eyes, as with this glance we see a window into the past

Ghost of a Shadow

I am the darkness and the night, wrapped within a thousand shadows

So to all who would challenge me, prepare to face an immortal rage

And though this shell of mine may be cracked and weak

I strike from a core as bright as to burn the skies

Or anyone who would test my will

Unless you fight with poison sword and jaded eyes

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Vengeance Price (Pre-Blog)

Into a room the warrior walked, more vengeance than man

Upon him lesser minions flung attacks which so feeble caused no concern

As he drew a deathly sword, noble steel blighted by reddened stain

Hollow cries let out ‘mercy mercy’, but only the reaper heard the pleas

Crimson shades stained his cloak, the marks hidden by an attire of black

Men of honour looked with horror at the deeds they saw done

But in the name of a father slain the warrior leaves his mark in sin

‘Leave and be spared, or stay and face my blade’ he states with chilling calm

Lessons learnt in deathly ruin turn lively tavern to silent tomb

One man remains in defiance and alone, the original target of the kill

‘My men were weak and you are as foolish as he’ he mocks with pride

Words against his father merely enforce the warriors fevered mind

As with poison for blood and a stone for a heart he makes a fatal stand

Two swords meet in conflict as the clash of steel makes times march take stride

The survivor stands a wounded man, yet free of pain as his life ebbs out

For he has taken the life of a murderer at the cost of his own

Yet the cost of murder has set two upon a path to the grave

The life of the villain, fallen to a sin he cast against the warriors name

The life of a warrior, lost to the sin of revenge against the villain slain

Riding the Tides of Crazy

I stare at a key board, the dull glow of the inviting screen welcoming my fevered attempts at typing, because the purpose of the enticing device is to be used for typing, informing, questioning and the exploration of a meaning into the existence of the conundrum that is the human condition.

My overall ability to care, give a damn and general concern for the fact that I have to at least appear to be half decently human is according to this blog ‘lacking’ as explored in a future post positively entitled ‘I am a crap human but a decent person’… please hold back your cheers and load up on anti-depressants!

I also highlight the again ‘lacking’ ability to hold, maintain and at the basic level even begin a relationship, such ethereal concepts of emotional currents a drowning force for the jaded and the broken, a group I fear to which I hold a lifetime membership (not by choose!). In fact I think this entire blog is a bleakly overcasting monument to my eternity grade negativity, although the words ‘Depression can be funny, you just have to be depressed to get the joke’ springs to mind.

There are people in this world not attuned to the idealistic ‘normal’ that gets thrown around in modern phraseology as highlighted in ‘Emotional flavours’ and for that I am both thankfully and mournfully minded. On a scale of 1-10, 1 the depths of depression in all its hellion glory and 10 the sunlight heights of positivity normal would be placed in the exacting mid range of 5 for all its mundane splendour.

If everyone was a 5, where would the ideals that are fuelled by extreme logic find their impedance and inspiration? But the catch is to be a number ranging outside of the 5. Too high in the rarefied air and resentment from the lowers is earned, too low in the depths and frustration is incurred, a simple yet annoying truth for someone lurking in the region of 2.53 I can assuredly assure you!

But hey, positive thinking time and all that moronically merry jazz as from the hazy rooms of moon lit blues I raise my weary head, so here goes:

  1. If life wanted me dead it would put a sweet a bullet cure through my head
  2. Life ain’t that crap, it just feels that way for a 2.53 on the scale!
  3. I’ve already taken a beating on a whole bunch of fronts and I’m still standing
  4. If Life wasn’t a challenge I’d be bored to severe levels

So this hell hound is going to ride the tides of crazy, take a heavy dose of whatever keeps my survivalist nature ticking and throw a few uppercuts at life on the way so hip happy hurrah and one for luck!

Him and Her

The blood ran freely from the singular slash to his submerged wrist, the very force charged with keeping him alive blending with the warm water in which he lay, a distinct lack of caring in the callous flash of teeth when he looked grinning at the door. Rhythmic banging became the drumbeat of deaths march as fists forcefully slammed against the door, helplessly reverberating the solid oak panel that stood between him and the women who had called him husband, lover and soul mate but it only widened the callous flash of teeth.

Of all life’s incentives and motivational encouragement the razor, as sharp and flashy as his current facial expression, had endeavoured to win the argument that began that Friday night with much earnest, and vodka. The bottles removal from its long slumber on the fridge’s shelve had left a telling void, even more telling was the morbid intent behind its removal as the liquid energetically escaped its confinement and found a home in a tall glass, soon to reside in his blood stream.

For the whole time the glass had rested in the hand of a dead man, his slumped posture and lacking energy as he lazily bypassed the mouth for a swift entry direct down the back of the throat a mere delay before the fatal act. A happy reminder was vividly staring him in the face in the form of a posh picture frame, within which rested a wedding photo sickeningly overflowing with infectious joy, but not enough to douse the finely tempered depression lurking behind the blank eyes fixated on the picture perfect window into that day.

He had heard her keys rattle in the stiff lock; gasp as her heels clicked into the dimly lit lounge to find the empty bottle and now she was incessantly banging on the door, an exhausted sigh lingered with his fading breath. She screamed something about not doing it but it was too late, panicked tones demanding him to open the door as the rhythmic beating lost its fevered tempo, his eyes closing slowly as the peace and quiet he craved was only broken by the occasional drip from the tap.

Blackness enveloped him as the crimson shade of the water took on a darker shade of life, expressionless, still limbs flopping slightly as bloodied razor clattered to the floor, his grip weakening with as much pace as the dying pulse in his veins. Her sobbing an unwanted emotional backdrop to the final seconds of consciousness that clung desperately to mortal life, even if his will to endure had let go a long time ago.

The sound of a lock shattering, voices screaming and flashes of green in his blurred vision as he was forced to look up at the paramedics elevating his limp arm, binding cut flesh with reddening fabric to stem the bleeding, and her. His wife could be heard violently trying to push her way into the room, equally violent was her screaming at him to hold on, in between showering abuse as she berated her visually lifeless spouse for doing this to her.

It all went movie ending black, silent relief as his last articulated thought was ‘She’ll be pissed with me if I wake up, or not!’ what minute energy that lingered went into contorting his face into a grim flash of darkly inspired humour.

Poison Pure

Shadows and light cast upon the other their own reflective principles

As the shadows conceal so the light seeks to reveal but the cost is what neither concerns

I could stare in the mirror till the frame falls into the shine of the accusing surface

What the black holes of my overcast eyes tell me may never have an effect to settle

But the cold lies that scream from those dead eyes is something that I will conceal

Quizzical minds can probe with questions at the core of a mind twisted into grey matter

Less quizzical minds know better as into that grey matter no logic may have a chance to recover

Give me an hour and to the world I conjure an image that will burn the eyes of the innocent

But that would only be to protect those eyes from the true horror of a corrupted vision

My hatred flows through pleasant valleys and into streams where beauty was once carried

But the landscape on promises of the happy has withered deep and uprooted sanity

The black rivers of poison pure and darker powers the only cure for hopes so shattered

Warped ideals and corrupted visions are the norm in this world so damaged

As fading as the shine of the mirror when the frame melts into a portal to pure horror

The cold lies that perpetuate in black holes devoid of pleasure have no such mercy

As into my eyes I will consume the quizzical nature of all that would probe a razors deep cut fissure

As in my eyes the less quizzical will see death a sunder on the winds of my spreading shadows

So don’t approach or make attempts at talk so little if what sits behind your words is pity

I am a fractured creature and to the damned and devil’s kin my rage is a familiar thing

Only welcoming the words of weight that reek of broken hope and ruthless sighs

As concealed within the cold lies and black holes of dead eyes