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Literature Text
December Rain
1.
So it was the end of December.
There was a steady rain touching the peaks
of our eyes' tiniest lashes
to shroud them in cracked drops
that would ice over as your breath did.
(why was it so cold?)
It was to make them as strong as steel,
though they crumbled like dust, nearly
collapsing from the wind flurrying around.
(I could trace it from the rain and
carcasses of leaves that stuck to its sound)
And each and every note that left your pharynx
was the color of a dead blue, blending in
so it was invisible under all the noise in the background.
2.
And I stood, waiting for the time your mouth would just stop and
for you to understand how much time could hurt
when abused and left out to dry like a towel in the sun
on a day like today.
With each tick of the clock I rocked on these nearly-new feet
and tried to taste the remnants of autumn wafting from the lawn.
(that was my favorite season, though it won't come again)
Though when I saw the lights go out in your eyes,
I had to wonder if it's fair to tell the truth
when you were always such a stranger.
I invited you inside, perhaps a bit too late by now,
exclaiming in a whisper, «two is a fretful number in rain,
«too large
«for a sole umbrella.»
3.
Though we still dripped pain on the carpets
when you told me that one is too small.
1.
So it was the end of December.
There was a steady rain touching the peaks
of our eyes' tiniest lashes
to shroud them in cracked drops
that would ice over as your breath did.
(why was it so cold?)
It was to make them as strong as steel,
though they crumbled like dust, nearly
collapsing from the wind flurrying around.
(I could trace it from the rain and
carcasses of leaves that stuck to its sound)
And each and every note that left your pharynx
was the color of a dead blue, blending in
so it was invisible under all the noise in the background.
2.
And I stood, waiting for the time your mouth would just stop and
for you to understand how much time could hurt
when abused and left out to dry like a towel in the sun
on a day like today.
With each tick of the clock I rocked on these nearly-new feet
and tried to taste the remnants of autumn wafting from the lawn.
(that was my favorite season, though it won't come again)
Though when I saw the lights go out in your eyes,
I had to wonder if it's fair to tell the truth
when you were always such a stranger.
I invited you inside, perhaps a bit too late by now,
exclaiming in a whisper, «two is a fretful number in rain,
«too large
«for a sole umbrella.»
3.
Though we still dripped pain on the carpets
when you told me that one is too small.
Literature
Harmourian History
As follows is an exscript from the "Gardeners Book":
Haramour was a priest of Sigmar who saw the corruption within the organization around him. He decided he would take up the works of Sigmar and help in burning out the wickedness within this holy sect.
He started a band of holy knights. to whom he told, "Pluck out the weeds so that the flowers may grow."
He and his "Gardeners" took out the better part of a full fifty man sect of the "Church of Sigmar" before haramour was finally caught.
During his last "weeding of the garden" he was caught in the act of purification by the paladins of the church and was quickly brought
Literature
The Meaning
We're all searching for a meaning,
To life, to love,
To sorrow, to death,
We think it must be a word,
a phrase,
some profound truth,
shining just out of our sight.
But what if,
life's meaning is but a butterfly's kiss?
It's the sight of that spring blossom
Welcoming the morning's light,
It's a friend's arm around you,
Amid grief's darkest night.
It's a waltz, that first kiss,
A teardrop's fall, the curtain call,
I see it in hands raised in worship,
And as tiny fingers greet the world,
Perhaps the meaning's not a word or phrase,
Neither a conundrum nor a matrix,
it's the sum of all our experiences,
The meaning is Life its
Literature
A History
Before Uruk and the fear of dust, when raven would reincarnate anguish into innocence, the oceanic justicier wove the fish-tales theogonous and we matched the scales. But nightly the tributaries wove, unnoticed, and the skein thickened and coagulated; and when the carrion-knights' took to wing and left the fabric entattered: men found stone, stone became pinnacle, and there were rumblings in the deep.
Early summer's afternoon: on the bus, the boy sings a song in every language. Older kids, at the back, laugh, &, O bitter reminiscence, he appreciates their warmth. One joins him, a rarity "hey
did you make up all of those words yo
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Sometimes it does rain in December...
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