Character

The Cry of the Scar & the Birth of Levesque

The Maddening Scar, left to gape,
howls its crazed winds in anger.
Its keepers – creators – have gone.
The Vulmandr wage new wars.

The victorious allegiance,
contentious post-victory
and beyond negotiation,
implodes and bellows outward;
disputing through blind destruction
and opportunistic strife.
Our Vulmandr, instruments born,
lay their sights on those they'd loved
and are made to vanquish, eyes wide.
Circumstances so bemoaned;
they, wielders of might beneath heel,
despair and condemn themselves
for such slights against kin and creed -

a stark few grinned as they slew.

While the world spits and convulses -
flaking at edges and core
as its face is marred, defiled -
the wary superpowers,
spreading tendrils, hungry and far,
force their Vulmandr to breed.
A tinny cry is made: so frail,
yet heard and felt by all who
once occupied the roiled Scar;

whimpering Levesque is born.

This babe that emanates purpose -
cutting teeth on sanguine prose
and calculated heresy -
grows and matures; ignorant
of what lay inherent within.
The eldest surviving sect,
stripped bare of old Vulmandr lore,
are kept from the cooing young
lest they ignite a fantasy
in tiny Levesque that he
and his kind are anything more
than weapons in wiser hands.

No sooner a man is he made
to stand stoic on front lines.
An artist affixed to canvas:
the wrath that expels from him
is unlike anything yet seen.
Swaths of towering fallout
are generated and fall swift
by will of Levesque alone.
He, of the brazen Vulmandr,
can only defer, and serve.

All the while he orchestrates
his mandated march in woe,
the Maddening Scar of yore days
rages and gathers itself,
like a coiled spring wrought from stone,
and pleads with the planet to
return its denizens to home.
Spewing fault lines form and spread
about its wide perimeter
and the essence of the Scar
begins to pour into the sky.
Like its Vulmandr children,
the Scar now burns the atmosphere.
Those who've occupied it, flee.

Ill with the plight of their homeland,
the divided clan revolts;
suffer as they will at the hands
of those who now possess them.
Caught between State and Tradition,
Levesque is sought, battered and
sent to a solitary grove
where few disturbances reach.

The Maddening Scar, having wept
for its colonies before,
aligns itself and releases,
surging its anger to coasts
once unknown to it long before.
Distant Levesque, his ears perk -
the call of his true home is heard:

he escapes, and then, departs.

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Lingerer of Edifice Rock

So spake the Lingerer of Edifice Rock:
"I will inhabit and withdraw light from the cur."
---------------
Sent descending upon his mineral palace
were bioluminescent crones imbued
with the will and capability to suffer,
and in turn, expel suffering to others
through pulsing, convulsing strobes.
----------------
Frightened and excited by their swell,
they felled themselves to favor on
the Lingerer's behalf, dropping to
his jawline like fireflies drawn
by an abominable source.
-----------------
Imbibing, he declared nothing
and napped away in dim, fluttering twilight
cast by his open mouth in mid-snore;
his breath smelled faintly of sand.

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Dijinus

Mandatory generator,
afflicted by the current,
prone to fits that bring down the lights;

satiate by means of the night
and steal at violent whim
from the transient scum that dwelt

in the home they'd expelled you from.
When infrequent rains will fall,
drenching every pit beneath,

you'll dig your fingers in between
the fissures dotting the pipes,
and turn the ground a brilliant white,

striking those who'd dare sleep upon
your pavement into prone sacks
that you'll soon feed to the river.

Care for every perch atop
the signal-ways that dictate,
direct and advise those below.

Live away from them and their grasp
that tends to drag you back to
the same place you ran from before.

Loose your glow on the streets and take
from the blinding neon waste
whatever you might need to draw

in order to never slumber,
never fall prey to nagging
doubt, or questions of what's good and

what's not. Use your possessive wrath,
at expense of what surrounds --
never slow, never hold yourself

in restraint for the bystander,
who wandered into errant bolt.
It was their due in their dimness.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Super old character who I may try to draw again.

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'The Reckon'

*Based upon a character in a story i wrote*

At first i'm nothing
I am living like you
I see what you see, hear,do
Which means i am somthing
Congradulations you're aware of me

I know you, all of you
I've watched over the beggining of all the earth
I know who created it and who sought against it
I'm neither God or Satan nor a loyal servant
Death, Superstition, Catastrophe, Chaos, Mayhem, Etc i'm made of all those things

Humans find peace when hope is gone
When War, Vengance and destruction hallows your planet
I weep at the lack of witt
What you crave is what your lesson will be when i arrive, i'll do it
But i need help, a deed and i'm done
I don't take no for an answer nor the will of life after death
When my abillities can control both, i am more of what satan wishes in depth
I am Immortal

And at my will the earth will be reborn
In my control i have sworn
By one of you i need is determined
Someone like me that is invidous
I want life!
So who non other be choosen
Then someone i've watched grown as i glanced and simmered into his presence
I found him... Jack Heirman.

*To be Continued*

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Under my dark days of being dictated by*Blue Eyed Girl* I kept to myself and never had many friends to talk to so I wrote a story which (I will summerize into a poem soon)
The Reckon is once again based on a character I wrote in a story which so happens to be a Shape Shifter that finds a noble human he can relate and has choosen him because they both crave the same thing *Revenge*

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City Pigeon

Everybody's saying that, "...she's a lying thief."
But I know better, saw it when...
Saw where it happened, there.
She's just a city pigeon. Brat, she couldn't
harm a living man lest she try, with all her might;
and truly why... Why would she try?
"Circumstantial..." this and that. What is this,
where have we arrived? This girl...
She must be tried and left to live
in a world free of nonsense, such as this,
and all of you, and your fucking agendas!
Leave her to go and be, without you;
without any of us! And trust her to be
a city pigeon in this, our world full of worms.

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Some People Are

Folder: 
Work, work, work

Looking in
And see the wonder
The diversity
Of the character
Of the people
I have meet.

You see the smile
That did not reach the eyes
And then hear the snare
When you are not near.
You feel the hurt
That burdened the hearts
Of those who became
The target of wrath.
You feel the pull
Down the pole
When you are up
Just to make you sad.
They don’t forget
Of your mistake
And ground their feet
Happy to see you defeated.

But these are only a few
Some people are really true
They don’t talk aloud
Seldom joined the crowd
They will stand by you
Accept you for what you are
They are just around the corner
Standing by your side
Waiting to help you up
When you stumble upon your path.

These people I will ever treasure
And forever to them I will be grateful.

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Lotess Minor

Lotess Minor sat and wept
amongst the burning trees that kept
his leafy bits from touching Earth
and his winding roots from finding dirt.

Now upon the stones he's set
and fretting is as much he'd get
from all the noxious smoke and ash
expelled to air from cache stash.

Ruckus was the tune of morn'
and Lotess found his rudders torn
by mean old bugs and chiggers found
'low the grass and 'neath the ground.

His leafy mitts were pinhole chewed
as winds would whip the blaze renewed
and glowing fronds would sail on air
while Lotess couldn't move from there.

His thirst had waited none too long
and upon the touch of root to wrong
he settled in against his will
and panicked as he drank his fill.

Now the terms of need would take
as Lotess sat there trapped and drank.
The pillared heat was closing soon
while Lotess gorged from nigh to noon...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

To be continued.

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The Vulmandir

None had ever bested us.
We, who were beyond rebuttal
were manufactured and
mesmerized by commoners
and set in one direction with
one purpose at a time.
From beneath we'd bury back
by blazing every mote of air,
every free and able space;
each man, each woman
who wore the colors we opposed.

Suddenly, they tucked us in,
and from our cracks beneath their feet
we poured like urchin toward the heights
as soles of boots did burn and scold
against the poured embankment.

While the blanket spread its death
and warmth, we fought our panic
and our foes did find us soon.
Collected, we then forced apart
all things, all people and
all constructs and their strata.
We do as we were made to do:
gorging on the dirty air as
we channeled hatred from
this distant place we had dreamt of.

But the many were just more than we,
who'd sunder they so ceaselessly;
informed by ours against their mantra,
chanted as they did seek our end.
The tidal wave of mortar, magma
and steel and stone emergent from
their mouths and beds that house the whole
of worth that they had gathered then.
Its weight was pressed upon our heads
and it was too much for rending thrice.
In hours we were widdled down
to matchstick men in drizzled ponds;
granted mercy in exchange
for our imminent departure.

Against ourselves, against our own;
we were perceived as threats and holy
smotes that left a pillared smoke
in wake of all we couldn't take.
Those who'd come, divided, took
a sampling of all our ranks -
like gluttons at a feast bones,
adorned by corpses, rotting, parceled.
And taken toward the other lands,
where paltry men once sought our guts,
we're flung aboard a soldier's hut
and told to be just as we were.

We would be deployed again
with a novel sense that we'd done wrong
in name of right or something close,
while we destroy our remaining brethren.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This has promise. It, along with my book, will come to real fruition some day.

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Kilagin "Kiljoy" Gullivus Frack

Kilagin "Kiljoy" Gullivus Frack -
not lacking humor but absent of tact -
twirled all his gears on route between posts,
doting on debts while sharing new jokes.
Man made of boulders with head settled small:
Kilagin Frack, with big Eastern drawl;
seen both as a portent and beloved delight,
affirming the change while pleading their plights.

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