writing Planar Cycle

[H.P. Lance 138]

This poetic prose was inspired by TheBronyHeart's piece 'Dedication of the Damned', when he requested to see my style of poetry by drawing through his.

 

I hope I did it justice.

 

My shadow is gone.

 

Question not the time of its passing, for only when your eyes, judgemental knives, illuminated my lesser half did my afflicted head sink to spot the blinding nothingness. Silhouette retreating to attack, self-righteous self-destruction concealed within the carefully crafted shape of nightmares, my frozen heart melted by the searing explosion to spill the blackened ink of these words.

 

I don’t care. This furious heat serves to complete a once infant interest in the rampage of lines my hand now traces, gluttonous creature growing as I offer my soul to every stroke, only to have it returned yet more twisted from whence it came. A meaningless deal with the devil, amused observance of my assault on the mirror which will never shatter. The cracks do not reflect an evil diminished; demons bleed through the fractures I create. Do I believe in the devil’s existence? Ask instead if I believe in my own existence.

 

You plead to flee the company of three that should be four, an escape born of misunderstanding. But take heed…avoid the trail of reddened decline, lest you ultimately return and join me within the circle to which I am chained. Locked. Bound. Chained. Infinite paths to the centre, a vaccine of my weakness awaits.

 

I cannot reach it. My shadow is gone.

 

Alone I sit on the throne of decadence, king of nothing, slave to my rules set in stone. Perfect hierarchy harmonises my desire for anyone, ANYTHING but the autocrats screaming their equations of creation. No victory to ever be achieved against this myriad mass of cranial insanity, head of my existence, though even if there were, a Hydra’s severed neck need only wait to bring down the axe twice as hard upon my own.

 

Third dimension unseen, unheard, the spheres that are my eyes mere entrances to the twisted soul that deceives them. No volume to vocalise my anguished cries as I tread the fictitious perimeter, grounded by ground ever travelled by the same two feet, a ring six feet deep. Of seven billion spirals, it chose mine to defile, connecting the ends with cruel malevolence. Reminiscence of the formerly beautiful shape so often arises, the helix down

which I tumble.

The reward of one’s dedication, it seems, an aftermath committed to spewing poison upon its founder. Fidelity’s fangs are mine to loathe.

 

Forever could I lament over years poorly spent, yet not a drop of regret falls amongst the glistening lake perfected over a lifetime. And therein laughs the devil.

   

Unwanted, I weep. The sole message I speak.

 

 

 

My        is gone.  

[Pan the Fabulous Ferret 2,642]

Magnificent, I repeat, magnificent.

Elegantly penned my friend. I most definitly see many styles of intrigue in use here, ones of brief consecutive imagery, and of vast understanding for the depths that are within concentration of the poem itself.

 

A thank you, along with a simple good work!

[Twilight Circuits 603]

My shadow is gone.

The shadow of my former self is gone.

 

Question not the time of its passing, for only when your eyes, judgmental knives, illuminated my lesser half did my afflicted head

It's not about how long the journey takes, it's about what is seen after the journey. For after the journey there is a new form of fear I could not feel before. For I feel that all judge me.

 

sink to spot the blinding nothingness. Silhouette retreating to attack, self-righteous self-destruction concealed within the carefully crafted shape of nightmares, my frozen heart melted by the searing explosion to spill the blackened ink of these words.

If my thoughts were what took me on this journey. Why do I not understand the very nightmares are not of my creation.

 

I don’t care. This furious heat serves to complete a once infant interest in the rampage of lines my hand now traces, gluttonous creature growing as I offer my soul to every stroke, only to have it returned yet more twisted from whence it came.

I care not for the savageness of my former self that knew not it grew without my knowledge or understanding.

 

A meaningless deal with the devil, amused observance of my assault on the mirror which will never shatter. The cracks do not reflect an evil diminished; demons bleed through the fractures I create. Do I believe in the devil’s existence? Ask instead if I believe in my own existence.

I knew no what I had done. Therefore the demons are my own which I met after understanding my own purpose in life.

 

You plead to flee the company of three that should be four, an escape born of misunderstanding. But take heed…avoid the trail of reddened decline, lest you ultimately return and join me within the circle to which I am chained. Locked. Bound. Chained. Infinite paths to the centre, a vaccine of my weakness awaits.

If three was company, four was a crowd. My ignorance would misunderstand that without love, leaving the fourth behind forges my own undoing. For the center of understanding, lies at the heart of weakness.

 

I cannot reach it. My shadow is gone.

 

Alone I sit on the throne of decadence, king of nothing, slave to my rules set in stone. Perfect hierarchy harmonises my desire for anyone, ANYTHING but the autocrats screaming their equations of creation. No victory to ever be achieved against this myriad mass of cranial insanity, head of my existence, though even if there were, a Hydra’s severed neck need only wait to bring down the axe twice as hard upon my own.

The path I seek is not of my own creation. For victory over myself is through the awareness that darkness seems twice as hard then it actually is.

 

Third dimension unseen, unheard, the spheres that are my eyes mere entrances to the twisted soul that deceives them. No volume to vocalise my anguished cries as I tread the fictitious perimeter, grounded by ground ever travelled by the same two feet, a ring six feet deep. Of seven billion spirals, it chose mine to defile, connecting the ends with cruel malevolence. Reminiscence of the formerly beautiful shape so often arises, the helix down

which I tumble.

 

I deceived others because i knew not that i deceived myself. Inside i cry as I walk I also dig my own grave. For the soul that was once denied, remains in shell of which i walk.

The reward of one’s dedication, it seems, an aftermath committed to spewing poison upon its founder. Fidelity’s fangs are mine to loathe.

What do I get in return for this path i walk but the sting of truth of which i must learn.

 

Forever could I lament over years poorly spent, yet not a drop of regret falls amongst the glistening lake perfected over a lifetime. And therein laughs the devil.

The years lost not knowing it was poorly spent from ignorance now smooth over the ripples of the water, for the deceiver is happy to have been deceived.   

Unwanted, I weep. The sole message I speak.

 

My former self  is gone.  My real self is here.

 

 

 

 

Well, there's my translation. Enjoy!

[Pan the Fabulous Ferret 2,642]

Well, there's my translation. Enjoy!

 Wait.. sooooo... you did a translation, of a translation of my poem/ prose.   I think we need another translation of your translation :3