The-Anariarch

By the wailing pool of black, sat a table, a table marble white. As white as the fountain pool, as sinister as liquid black. Upon this table white rested a checkered square, a checkered square of red and black to match the roses there. Many a game and many a night were lost atop these checkered squares, found on table marble white next to a pool of liquid black. And as the pool of liquid black sat on fountain of marble white, so did these checkered squares rest dolefully on blood spilled there. Many a man would wager there upon the checkered squares against the man of petal black. And many a many would lose more than he dared on games of checkered squares. What drove sane men to seek him there, he never knew. What stirred the men to wager more than dare and lose a flower there. A flower just discarded upon a checkered dare. Woe to the poor girls, for this isn’t fair, for they dared to not be there, now they shall lay bare. But a clever man, the petal’d man is, for

Have you ever gazed upon something and wondered “What the Hell?” And you leave yourself wondering how such a thing could be. I always was left pondering the marvels of our world, Everytime I meet a special someone. I’ve been blessed with knowing some more than decent people: Fair. Bold. Just. And I’d have to say that the current person that fits the bill Is all these things and more. And she always promises to glow; For sure she lights up the night. And now we celebrate her birthday, This incredible woman who we have met. May her steps be merry and fruitful. May her grace never falter. For such a lady as she, she will truly win the day. And who knows where she’ll be, At the drawing of the curtain When at last we are all set free.

A Rose; From the Black Petal Man’s Garden Ho, now, thru and true, I stop thee, fair maid, on whateverthoust may descend upon thee that would have you rushing at this late hour; and thru my fields no less. Pray not thee warrant a fear, for what else could fields be made for if not for trampling about. … Pardon me, your Grace, but it would seem upon fair look of thee I recant my previous abrasion and see now to give you the proper respect you deserve. So fine a Lass could only flee in such tumultuous haste and fury if she were being pursued by foul wickedness of Ideals or the corruption that spawns in all our Kind. Pray that we not see corruptions sludge on one of the Kindred, for we may have to slay both an ideology and a friend. Nevertheless, my dear lady these moments are but common concern to our kind, as I recognize thee as a thing of beauty, regardless your haste. Pray, let me offer you refuge in my hidden home, it would be of most taking to a Lady of your stature, I assure

The Sanguine leaf That marks the toll of dread clocks Is not a sore that should be coarse but rather a song of new beginnings; That sing majesty as the petal decays and leaves upon the Earth a scar that reminds us all of the glory we can, rightfully, attain.

Shackled to a song Not even a Symphony Watching my mind soak in the notes Which I drown in fermented beverage For how else can I choke this verse Of all the plagues it has unleashed It is not done so that I can sing But to show that another song can be sung Yet if I must Sing I shall rise to the pulpit and conduct A hymn of pure silence Until I am inspired by my audience Waiting for this inspiration I shall hold my nations flag And let the cold winds of a Country bear down And grant mute audience to my Harmony Had us a laudable purpose I would have already been singing But as majesty would prevail I find myself enjoying the Darkness And watching all the trash Crumble away Like Kidney stones none of us need.

So there upon the precipice A forlorn shadow Bereft of natural warmth Yet kindled with a fire unnatural To them that the story knoweth Can but piece the fragments of an epoch. Yet they who dare to grasp within their palm sure knowledge Find themselves strangling thorns. The wayward flock that has been led by malice Can do naught but flail about the truly present madness. Made only so by the Dead architect, Who neither knowing Design or Purpose, Cast the entirety of our species into Darkness, For no better reason than to possess coin and rod. Truly, a man can fault not the desires of our forefathers. To instill order, so that hope blooms. To propose purpose, so that civilizations may prosper. To invoke the yolk, so that progress can be relished. These are worthy goals. Yet how flawed in their execution. For none have, until now, risen to steer the reins to newly fashioned demise; None have dared to cry out: “Look out ahead!” We took our favor in giving thanks to our guiding

A Marriage of Convenience There walking down the street, I alone and beholden to none save myself, I spied, within my mind, a blue-haired rose; her voice and presence sweet. She greeted me with silence, looked upon me with closed eyes and hit me atop the head; thus were we married. That was 15 years ago. I can still hear her laughing at nothing and everything and her voice still makes me smile. I bring her gifts from my adventures and she chews on them with a ravenous hunger reserved for scholars, researchers, and scientists. My horde of books has been visited upon by slender fingers caked in potato chips, yet never have I seen a book displaced or a page stained. My devices, both electric and of purpose meant for drink and smoke have been shared with a young girl whose notion of ‘share’ is to simply grab it, use it, and give it back. Her smiling face is quite possibly the greatest blessing I have ever received; along with the gift of knowing I can illicit such a joy from such a

How can we admire a clipped Rose? It is not that she is removed from the earth of her birth, Or from her sisters and mothers that cultivated her. But rather that, in an abrasive gesture, we admire her without her thorns. What are we teaching our Daughters? That we live in a world where submission is held in the regard of womanhood? And that as natural creatures, they should be culled of their natural design? And be kept in manners that would illicit their silence? Just as ours has been evoked by absence of testimony to this regard. I would not have our Roses clipped. I would have them bear their thorns. For I believe they have them, So that each Rose can grow separate and apart among the bush. And so that each Rose, in this fashion, grows unique and pleasing. And in consequence the entire bush is reaped of singular sights. With each stem growing so as not to harm its sisters. And each stem being insured in this regard that it will receive its full batch of luminous Sun. And be

And though the Guns are quiet, And the enemy has been routed. Across a Satin-Stained ground where a Vile procession met, The fury and righteousness of our people Prevailed beyond all discord and were united Against the unceasing chorus that would spell our demise. Yet before our might the song struck with ill design Fell silent when the last foe fell dead and bloodied, While we and ours stood victorious. And though the Guns are silent, And a tranquil calm imbeds itself upon the air, There are those amongst our own kind, Who would use the peace of victory To savor their own ends. At the cost of those who fought and bled. Though the battles have ceased, and the markets open once more, So our people can enjoy fruits and products of our making, There lie in wait the wretches who, for no firm gain, Design to pursue a wicked scheme. And bring treason to our doorstep, And sully the trust between neighbors. Between mother and son. Between leader and subject. And worse between one and

And there upon the bow of a battered ship, A crest of ancient man, silent, immutable. Bearing all who gaze into its eyes to a shore of a forgotten world. A Land reap with treasure for scholar and warrior alike. The first who made landfall, an ascended shadow of themselves. Wracked with horror at the simplicity of Natures course, They now find Her as terrifying as the stoic Universe, Who could now only be said to be crafted by an Artisan. A device of resplendent precision, that echoes from itself the speech of but a mirror. Placed in the blackest of Abyss, Yet in that darkness, born a light, That reverberates a Hymn that is only heard once the choir is assembled. And here, today, breeching the Hallowed Halls of the internal Mind, Was loosed upon the world a discovery so foul. Yet only made so by the sheer blindness of our race. That should our tension be our only condemnation, we are fortunate. For here before this verdant void, we afford us an opportunity. To meet the challenge of