My Meek King
To me, you've come
My king
To you, I belong
My liege
Meek you are
Gentle and kind
Having no fear
Simply divine
Sweetly you appease
Patiently you convince
Generously you give
Faithfully you believe
Your richness
Your steadfastness
Your holiness
Your meeknes
Have won me over
Drew me closer
Made me determined
To be your queen
The fruit of the Holy Spirit
You bear so richly
To the holy word
I see your submission
So I give Yahuah praise
For binding us together
Glory alone to His name
That we are for each other
My meek king
To you I yield
Forever your queen
My meek king
"The Castle was gigantic.
Expansive, was it's wide thrust,
filled with cracks, crevices and uneven bricks
pock-marked with mortar turning to dust.
Inside the deep recess
was a dormant terror,
up in it's highest tower,
a princess lived, none fairer.
But both were locked up,
the furnace inside the gargantuan beast
kept the Castle warm,
the ovens hot, promoting many a feast.
But lest the monster
breaks its shackles!
As once had happened before,
the quest none could tackle.
Knight after knight
fell to the flame,
the winged lizard licking tongues
of fire all about, untamed.
Many an arrow was shot
from hunters brave,
but no purchase for any arrow
was, by the monster hide, gave.
Spear was no better,
having been thrown hard and true,
but not a single mighty heft
would force a metal tip through.
Then one day,
the princess who lived above,
just asked, 'give me a chance!',
but her father would allow no tug.
So that night,
while the great serpent ravaged the land,
she scaled down her tall tower
with the most daring plan.
She crept along the meadow,
in the cold of the moonlit night,
and up the the snoozing beast
she stomped her boot with all her might.
The beast sprung up,
startled awake by such a petite thing,
but before he bellowed flame,
she started to sing.
Sweetly, softly,
she sang out her heart,
and through spirit, ripped hers out,
and handed it over, so that they'd never be apart.
Since then,
the two remain locked up with no regret.
The land has since healed.
But many don't forget.
Of the Girl and her Wyrm,
the star-crossed lovers never meant to be.
And how through love and song
she saved all the eye could ever see."
All those tiny paper-thin slices of it
Horizontal
Hanging
Up and down and caving and expanding and coloring and clotting and 0’ing and 1’ing
Electric-atom spinners
Asphalt spitting it out and up
again and again and again
Fool (us or tricked)
Proof (of anything or John Nash with an infinite-ink-marker and a heaven of windows)
Pyro (in backyards across America on-a-day or chest-against-chest-heart language)
Maniac (mirrors or common-speak-for-hue undetectable as of current instruments available)
Swallow (bird or gulp-(only nervous though always))
It is pulled out.
picked at,
nudged,
heated to correct temperature,
sent,
spent,
signed,
sifted,
mangled,
assembled,
struck,
caressed,
tapped,
conjured,
It is put in.
And so in (and also is) the circle
King of the Stick Figures
Queen of Immense-Black and Trembling-White
Valorous Posture
Of the both
In the one
Let it slowly close
Pace=sunny day building shadows from 9:00 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. viewed from the same dusty bench
Until circle becomes single point
And there is no words
And there are no sounds
And it holds the weight
You are my everything
You are the light from the sun
And you are the air that I breathe
My heart has already been won
All because of you
You are the reason
For the thoughts in my head
I am a maiden
And you are the King
That has stolen my heart
And now that you have it
I wont, from you, part
Not if I can help it
When you give me a ring
Then both our hearts will sing
~Chrystal
Written on
October 14, 2013
Make him a king
Who was born with a spoon of gold,
But only if
He has dined in the squalor of the poor.
Don't make him a king
If like a hawk he was born hungry,
For on his wing
He will surely prey on the awry.
Please make not a king
One who was born poor but now rich.
I know this: his eyes
Will on the humble always twitch.
Like paint
Childhood reposes on the canvas of life
Even a saint
Or a Michael has his own story.
A child born hungry
Makes a grubbing rich: always angry.
But one born wealthy
Makes a humane poor: always healthy.
Make him our king
Who was born rich but tasted our plight;
A Christ-like king
Who will always feel and heal our blight.
Accompanied by a single fearful soldier A General spoke of an acient tale passed down through generations He spoke of a lone, powerful king whose empire enveloped the earth the man that approached him the child that left his eyes sparked terror yet absent of fear constant visions of saddness death and despair yet he stay unnafected by these, cowardly things... his mind that led what his hands had built the song of his queen eased the pain of his will, listen 2 his voice of power and command which flows throughout the hearts of men, "LOOK AT ALL THAT I HAVE DONE YEE WHO ARE AMBITIOUS FEEL MY AMBITION YEE WHO TRY AND CONQUER ME TREMBLE IN DESPAIR" the general looked at his soldier and said with open arms that the king which once had lived gave up everything for me and he did the same for you and with profound love, that soldier knew it 2 be true
Alhazred was born in Yemen,
Traveling in the known world;
Amassing lore and legend,
And the tales of the fiends.
A writer and a poet,
He was educated much.
Geometry, algebra, Alchemy
And magickal incantations' need.
From the cup of occult knowledge
He drank deep...
Driving a normal person
To madness or beyond.
Alhazred was once a normal man,
With desires like we all can.
He was Arab by birth,
With a pale skin in rebirth.
Being labeled the mad,
As he was once a dad.
But had to eat his child,
By the King of the Palace's might.
He wrote down the Necronomicon,
In more than one song...
The obscure, the forgotten,
The suppressed, the rotten.
Never meant to be read;
It causes insanity with speed.
Not interpreted rationally,
The thoughts cause a rally.
Alhazred was insane,
By the lore he learned within.
But he wrote clear,
With many a tear.
The state of the Universe,
In reality suspense;
Plaything of mad gods at best,
Sewer of evil in the north, south, east, west.
Humans dare not dream of this,
For their peaceful lives they cannot miss.
A warning and guide this book is,
And by the Djinns you do wish.
Alhazred died, not a mystery,
It is written in history.
In the marketplace,
He was erased.
By the Demon from beyond,
Who wanted him gone.
Blood upon the sand,
There he was banned.
In broad daylight,
With many a sight.
He meddled with evil things,
With beings with wings.
He is now dead,
After he bled...
Alhazred was born in Yemen,
Traveling in the known world;
Amassing lore and legend,
And the tales of the fiends.
A writer and a poet,
He was educated much.
Geometry, algebra, Alchemy
And magickal incantations' need.
From the cup of occult knowledge
He drank deep...
Driving a normal person
To madness or beyond.
Alhazred was once a normal man,
With desires like we all can.
He was Arab by birth,
With a pale skin in rebirth.
Being labeled the mad,
As he was once a dad.
But had to eat his child,
By the King of the Palace's might.
He wrote down the Necronomicon,
In more than one song...
The obscure, the forgotten,
The suppressed, the rotten.
Never meant to be read;
It causes insanity with speed.
Not interpreted rationally,
The thoughts cause a rally.
Alhazred was insane,
By the lore he learned within.
But he wrote clear,
With many a tear.
The state of the Universe,
In reality suspense;
Plaything of mad gods at best,
Sewer of evil in the north, south, east, west.
Humans dare not dream of this,
For their peaceful lives they cannot miss.
A warning and guide this book is,
And by the Djinns you do wish.
Alhazred died, not a mystery,
It is written in history.
In the marketplace,
He was erased.
By the Demon from beyond,
Who wanted him gone.
Blood upon the sand,
There he was banned.
In broad daylight,
With many a sight.
He meddled with evil things,
With beings with wings.
He is now dead,
After he bled...
A seaport in the land of Ooth-Nargai,
Being build of sky-blue marble;
Topped by slender minarets.
Bronze statues of famous heroes,
One page topped from Al Azif.
In the center the temple to Nath-Horthath,
Where eighty orchid-wreathed priests serve,
No less than ten thousand years old art they.
The greatest trading center in the Dreamlands,
Creatures of all sort in their bazaars.
As in Sona-Nyl, there being no time,
Nobody ever ages, dreamers aloft
In the taverns of Celephais.
Nobody matures, remaining forever innocent.
King Kuranes: King of Celephais,
Lost his life through drug addiction.
Living forever in the Dreamlands,
In the Palace of Seventy Delights,
Built of flawless rose-crystal.
Past the eastern gate is a park,
Wherein the King build a Norman Abbey
And a small Cornish fishing village,
To resemble his native Cornwall,
To which he can never return,
Now that his waking form is dead...