A Beautiful Warlord

Guess it's been a while since I've revved up this old thing. Scribbled some stuff on my arm, felt it needed solidifying.



You have invaded my conscious.
Stormed the citadel of my dreams,
And taken hostage my focus, thoughts spilt into a stream.
Truly, you have occupied the nation of my Mind.
A force greater, more powerful, yet subtler than the tide.
All you may be is all I can know.
You've swept the land of my closed eyes.
Like a graceful conqueror, a beautiful warrior.

The Flood.

'I *love you',
'I *love you more',
'No I'm pretty sure I *love you more',
Naww, I *love you more'.

*hurt

Stood on the beachhead,
I stare out upon the endless ocean,

She looks the other way, to rolling green hills, glazed with the sun.
I see the thunderclouds gather upon the horizon, every tiny atom
dragging one-another together. Each tiny
splinter in the sky, builds upon one-another to become a
titan, ready to step out the sunlight we thought so unbreakable.
Once.
I go to tell you of the threat, open my mouth and begin to speak.
But the words, they trip and stumble as they try to clamber from my throat.
Can't bring myself to utter those words,
Because i know you can't bear to hear them.

It draws closer, faster, greater than ever before,
until finally it begins to engulf the beach.

I feel it rush over me, through me,
this ordeal is born from my mind but it can't be stopped,
it must come, to wash us away.
To destroy the wrong so that the right may come anew.
I try to shield you from it's wrath,
look to my right, but you are taken. Swept up.
I hear you scream at me,
as a blade is dragged through my chest by the jagged waves.
I black out.

Wake, slowly, a splitting pain behind my ribcage.
Finally I turn around.
I see the remnants of the tree we enjoyed,
the pages of the books you read,
the tattered mattress on which we slept,
a wasteland where a paradise once was.
I will miss that paradise, and I will cherish the time I was blessed with it.
But this wasteland is where I belong.

I pray that the sea has set you down upon new land,
where you can create a paradise of your own,
and bring another into it one day soon.

Wise ones always tell you to follow your heart.
But what, what happens when your heart leads you to a place of rage and sorrow for the pain you have sown?

I, Daermer

'There must be some way out of here/said the joker to the thief' - Bob Dylan

¦Leaving a dream, is it an illusory hell?¦

¦A fall from a graceful escape?¦

¦Or a reintroduction to the true delusion?¦

¦Waking from a dream, what do we wake to?¦

¦The truth, or simply another illusion?¦

A mirage designed by something, someone, them, you, me, or us

to escape the world we grew tired of?
The world that grew old?
Or the world we slit the throat of, devoured the life-blood of, and whose colour we left to seep out and pour into the road of time?
The old world that has been left to fade and writhe in it's dusk and darkness.
Did we form this world, with it's colours and sounds and science,
to take the stead of the one we had raped and savaged until nought was left?
Even so, this illusion could only ever be a husk,
a half-remember fragment, compared to what it may have tried to replace.

If this world is the design of some 'god', what difference does it make, right?
Then are you not curious as to the world that exists outside of this box.
What new colours, senses, experiences that might exist outside of this prison.
Disregard for the chance to explore is the defect that makes a human truly blind.
So if this world is an illusion, what of us, what of me? How do I know I exist?

'Cogito ergo sum - I think, therefore I am.' - Descartes

If I believe that, then I know I am alive,
I know I am no phigment of some genius bastard's psyche,
or a product of some playground built by 'gods' to entertain them for the rest of forever.
If this truth is THE truth, then I know that I exist, whether here, or in some other verse, and this is only My mind, dreaming.
This is not to say that you are false, only that I am real.
In essence - I see the world through these eyes, so I can trust these eyes, but they are all I can trust.

But what if these eyes were built to perceive only the illusion.

Were built to think they were real.
To see only under the waters of this deception.
Were built like your eyes in the dream.
If we are never truly born, but programmed to exist, deteriorate, and fade,
then what hope do I have in waking from this dream?

Will I ever transcend all that I am here, and take back myself in reality? In paradise?

Or simply diffuse into the 1s and 0s that compose the universe;

and see all that defines me dissolve back into the Sea of the dream.

A friend of mine just tried to kill himself. We've said he's a little insane for a long time
Maybe he tried to die as an escape from the dream. At least he's looking for the exit.
Maybe he's the only sane one.

How will we know, for as long as we are submerged in the dream, the sea is all there is.

Within Reach Now

The word with no equal,
Can often be the most difficult to reach.
Clasping at a time when you can look into the other's eyes, and say it meaningfully, is
Like hacking through the jungle, breaking through the bullshit
To reach the haven at the destination.
Worth it? Always.

Often though, the arguments feel like they're gonna be the death of it.
Not today, not tomorrow, but one day.
Like the jungle is gonna grow faster than you can tear it down, swallow you,
And drop you at the bottom of some pit which you can't escape from.
You'd claw at the sides and go slowly mad, kept company only by yourself, screaming at you
'Where you went wrong'. And the destination - is far-off, impossible now to reach.

Or, is it like a bonfire?
Not quite ready until it's set alight. With heat, with rage, and passion, and collisions.
Until the word is ignited by differences?
Well flames are certainly pretty, warm, and make you feel happy for a while.
But they're dangerous, they hurt...
They burn out fast too.

And if you set light to the jungle?
Try to fix one-another and make it a clear path to the end;
Try to argue your way through the forest, to reach your goal at the end.
Thinking it can be repaired by saying 'I...You'.
You never reach your true destination, because it's burnt with the rest of it.
A charred remainder of the elegance it once was

So, light the fire-pit, or tear and burn the jungle?
No, deal with each day, learn to live with the jungle, rather than tear it down
And look forward to the rewards at the end.
Look forward to the reward of gazing into their eyes,
And hearing your heart scream, and your mind nod, and your tongue say

'I Love You'.

It Lkoos Crrecot

'So... how does it feel to be a character in a dream?'

It certainly feels 'real'.
I feel the keys under my fingers, feel them react against my force with each tap;
Does that make them existent?
I can smell the breeze from outside, the start of summer creeping into the room;
I hope that's 'real'.
I can see the trees outside, mostly swaying in unison. But sometimes they stop -
Am I sure that's real?
Love must be real;
It interrupts your thought, takes over your consciousness and diverts you from everything else.
How could that not be real?
Thanks for the 5 senses, they certainly seem to work well.

"Just resting my eyes..."

It certainly feels 'real'.
I feel the dream-catchers and low-hanging ancient antiques brushing past me as I walk;
Does that make them existent?
I can smell the stench of death creeping towards me, it's distinctive;
I hope that's not real.
I can see the hooded figure opening the door for me. The bodies falling in the corridor before me.
That must be real, why would I imagine that?
Pain must be real;
It interrupts your thought, takes over your consciousness and diverts you from everything else
How could that not be real?

Thanks for the 5 senses - still missing the one that counts though.

Because I know I'm dreaming.

If I push on this wall, will it collapse;
Like some cheap scenery card-trick?
Or is it a little stronger than that;
Is it the most magnificent card trick ever performed? At the heart of my brain.
Always liked the one where the magic man pulls the card from his mouth,
Like he's dragging it from his mind.
Maybe you are the card, dragged from mine,
Or maybe we're all cards, dragged from God's.

I guess I'm stuck in this bubble for now.
Can't touch you, can't hear you.
But I see you; I see where we're going.
Floating down to the water, where it begins.
Where we can all awaken from this deep dream.

'Reality - is what you make of it.'

It Is a Good Pain

To miss someone,
To remember their scent,
Their smile, their skin. To feel sorrow for what you have, but cannot.
Cuts deeper than a flaming blade to the heart.

The monk, sitting on the mountain
Feels nothing. Linkless to anyThing, independent of anyOne,
No barrier can break his connections, since there is nothing to break.
Like a dead man;
Sat in heaven, he can feel no pain.
When that which he loved is gone.

Away, for now. A distance stretches this link between their two souls,
Twists and warps it into the essence of pain.
Not pain of evil, the pain of love,
Retaining it's former purity, immortal.
Like a bullet, elegant and glistening,
A jewel delivering agony and ecstasy, in equal measure.

This barrier of ice, the other side so clear
He can see the image of their face.
Perfect - too seductive, ever-enticing.
Passion for the heart / Torture for the mind.

The Sorrowful One, stood, wishing he was the monk?
No. Glad he is stood behind this glass, with this blade In his heart,
Setting his thoughts of her alight.
Glad to be stood there before the glass, the veil holding them apart.

Because I'll take this dagger, shatter the glass, and hold you with me forever.

A Dance

Every day, we dance. You, I, and Them.
To music, we move our feet to the rhythm and rhyme,
Sending sparks out that could light fires in a thousand admiring hearts.

We dance in our conversation, a waltz of words, the limbo of language,
Our tongues turn and bounce in sync, like radio receivers,
But miss a step, step on toes, and anger is spawned.

The believers, they Dance with god.
Put their hands together, clapping out a melody with a prayer,
A dance with no crescendo, with an impossible partner.

The lords and crowds of this land Dance out moves with their speech and their cheers
A Movement of their feet, of their voices, becomes a Movement of the world order.
Dancing out a new dawn, so that fewer must take their final Dance of death.

A Dance I will make sure you never take as long as our feet move in kind.
Instead, we'll Dance with our hands, with our bodies, with our hips, those lips.
On whatever Dancefloor we can find - A forest, a street, a dance with your eyes.
With my hand on your back, and our fingers interlocked; this ballroom is for us.


Dance with all your heart, mind and soul to the music each new day gives you.