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Literature Text
They say that on this night the witches ride,
that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead.
It isn’t true.
It’s said the stench of hell infects the earth
and healths of heated blood are downed.
But Hamlet lied.
The dead know nothing, the living less.
There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;
souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
Literature
Incubus
I offer you more than words can express
Many mortal men have sold their souls for less
I offer you this, but it comes with a price
A moment's pain for such a trifle sacrifice
Literature
The Bane of Heaven
Darkness, consumes,
Leaving Men on the plain,
Intrepid, yet isolated,
More than possibly, doomed
So many have fallen,
So who will rise,
And take forth this battle,
Back to the skies?
Men, unto each other,
Truly, they do beseech,
"Is there not one among us,
Who will stand, stand tall, and lead?"
Men on the plain,
Are writhing in pain,
From wounds which will not heal
So many souls have fled,
So many are lost, dead,
How few remain, on the field?
But amidst all the blame,
All the shared shame,
Of what can only be a shattering defeat,
A Man comes forth in chains,
Comes onto the plain,
And in the dust at their feet, kneels
H
Literature
Catacombs.
That Saturday
we sat
cross-legged
with our knees
just brushing,
close enough
to feel
one another's
breath
on our ears;
so separate
from the days
of holding shells
to this place
and hearing our hearts:
the moons that
churn our scaled-down
seas.
Reading to ourselves
from composition notebooks
filled with talk
of decomposition
(the metaphors
obscured
until the wines
began to pour)
and running our
thumbs over the keys
to our
skeleton-
filled
closets
until they reached
an uncomfortable shine
and
our prints
began
to
fade.
(If only I had known
we'd reconstruct
the Catacombs
before the dawn
of that next day.)
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Comments1558
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Very good.