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The world is now tinted in green.
Not lenses. No, far simpler than that.
One has only to look and see the vegetation and the new rising from the rot.
The struggles are over. The forces laid down their guns.
Marigolds burst through their chamber-locks.
The few that were left put down their cell phones.
They now are seen more often with their friends and family.
The pentagon is now an open jungle gym for the children.
Their laughing echoes through the halls and out the hole in it's side.
Fields and streams bubble through were malls used to haunt.
Now only useful as vague skeletons for the vines to grip and strangle.
Drugs are now vague. Extremely expensive and unwise,
Men must now work for their lives, and the lives of their families.
Man must now run from the pets. Outnumbering the humans vastly,
They now rove in gangs, patrolling and causing fear.
None who ever called their cat 'sweetie' or 'sugar' could ever imagine
The sheer terror brought to mind by cats regularly ripping humans to death.
The machines are feared above all. Gone feral, these beasts of burden,
once slaves to our whims, have taken the years of terror and torture
and turned them into the fuel for a satanic rage against the human race.
No one should ever attempt to make anew. It seems that, as a race, we have angered the machine spirit.
Convenience is gone.
Information is gone.
Education is barely there.
However, the sheer beauty of life seems to outweigh it. We all seem to be happier, since that year. The true beauty of life is never lost on us now, as we see the true price of it.
 Robert Harbour · Sun Nov 25, 2007 @ 06:35am · 0 Comments |
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Deep, cold concrete morning.
The metal rolls by, unerring, utterly focused.
No glances, loss of purity.
Out here in the concrete, the soul becomes frayed and tattered,
diseased by itself. Corrupted by it's own machinations.
If one walks about, you must not let yourself go,
or the metals find you.
They will fill you with your own panic, your own fear.
Then you take care of yourself, eating yourself alive in the nightmare landscape.
On my wanderings, few things became clear. For each step taken,
the longing to be back where I started grows like lust, like a hunger.
An inventory of items is found to be necessary, no explorer should be left without.
Every piece counted and reclaimed,
outside influence countered and maimed.
The walk, the great walk into the nothing.
Every piece starts to fall off, face lost, voice gone, fingers ground down.
All purpose transparent. It is now time.
The man, or me, whips out the pistol. So far gone now, no way else.
The poet points it at himself. The cold metal butt of the gun digging into the temple.
Suddenly, a noise.
He whips around and sees it, one of the metals. But so solid is it now, it senses
the end. It senses it's own rise to power in the concrete.
The poet points the gun quickly at the car. One shot...
The poet finds himself back. Back at the beginning, back in the middle of the concrete. But no walking, this time. Only sitting.
Sitting and thinking.
Robert Harbour · Sat Jul 21, 2007 @ 12:22am · 0 Comments |
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Strong rolling thunder Plundering through my mind.
Swirling stone, all set to the beat of the fool's drum.
True silence. Power, with no identity, cries out in it's dark obsidian nightmare.
Robert Harbour · Mon Jul 02, 2007 @ 04:27am · 2 Comments |
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Name: Koios Doron
Age: Approximately 35
Description: Koios stands at a small 5'5". The top of his head is adorned with straight, brown hair that hangs loosely down to the middle of his neck. He wears a pair of no rimmed round spectacles, outlining his one green, one blue eye. A small pendant hangs from his neck, a kneeling dragon, constructed of Jade and Obsidian. He usually wears a thick, rough textured black trench-coat with broad tails that barely float above the ground. Under the coat, he wears a baggy maroon button-up long sleeve shirt, un-tucked from his tailored black slacks. A metal chain hangs from his left pocket, one end connecting to his pants, and the other to a rather heavy glass work clock. Two mirror polished tightly laced Spats are partially covered by his pants. He is fairly physically frail, and prefers not to get into physical combat. However, he is not without his methods of confrontation. He is adequate in most magics, and excels in illusionary, luck and hex spells. His spell book is contained in one of the large pockets in his trench coat, along with cigarettes, and a lighter.
All other info I generally leave to be said in the roleplay.
Robert Harbour · Tue May 22, 2007 @ 04:21am · 0 Comments |
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Warm soft fire.
You burn so
Deep.
Cold harsh fire.
you cut so
good.
There is a small place in which it sits,
Surrounded by a vacuum of noise.
All the time appearing like a small little book,
Open me. and see my strange
Mercurial desire.
Pushing, hating,
Wanting, caring.
Screaming, feeling,
so lost.
May the ropes that bond us be set free, and the bird let out.
No more an estranged victim, but a close lover.
Blech.
Gotta keep writing these things if I ever want them to get better.
My life's been doing okay. Finally getting agrip on my situation, letting old scars fade, and new wounds open.
Robert Harbour · Wed Jan 17, 2007 @ 12:18am · 1 Comments |
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The burn. Every little tiny
Pin. Rushes down like Flowing
Water. Small short red marks
It. Grainy exposure, no
Shelter.
Robert Harbour · Wed Dec 20, 2006 @ 04:24am · 0 Comments |
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And then the mist faded, and the man looked upon the new world before him.
The strange flames crackled their tounges, laying their feelings in blows.
The shock and elation of persued bliss, acheived and received.
Robert Harbour · Fri Dec 15, 2006 @ 05:54am · 0 Comments |
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Growing estranged.
Seperated, cut off.
No more, I scream to the silence.
Small answer, no answer.
All recieved, often given.
I can feel myself rotting.
I don't know if I am a good person any more.
I think about doing evil to others,
something I never could have conceived.
What reward have I gotten, for being the nice one?
I ASK YOU THAT!!!!!!!!!!!
THe fury-
it comes so strong. I want to rip, to tear away my life.
No, that would be too painful.
I AM stuck.
A clearing, it finds.
I am stopped in my persuit.
I do not know whgt it is I chase.
I got away from her.
I got away, and that same accursed vestage HAUNTS me.
IT persues me, wearing the corpse!
Why? Have I not been good?
Is there not need of useful servants in this plane?
I wish I could just float off, in a dream,
But like an infection, I stick.
Why do I expect these saviors?
Why do I invest my faith? I'm supposed to be the godless one.
THe one afraid of death.
LIAR!
I can speak plain english.
I am NOT an idiot.
Heh, I'm ranting aren't I?
Just in one of those moods.
Oh well.
Robert Harbour · Wed Dec 13, 2006 @ 05:05am · 0 Comments |
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Those white flashes.
Those burning white hot flashes.
Searing through the flesh, it peeks out.
It touches you. A shiver.
It strips away, this carrion lot.
Leaving behind the dredges of then
Reaching it's hands to embrace the sun.
The searing, white hot sun.
Red on blue, blue on black.
the very essence strips on the command,
the vestiges lingering, clawing
wishing it not to leave.
It is already gone.
Sounds a bit better than usual, doesn't it?
I hope so.
Robert Harbour · Tue Dec 05, 2006 @ 06:12am · 0 Comments |
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