critique thread

Post your work - Audrey edition

Poetry, prose: all is welcomed.

  1. 3 weeks ago
    Anonymous

    The original is in portuguese. Sorry for the bad English.

    Future psychiatrists, first of all I need to tell you
    That there is a horrible beauty in our profession.
    The beauty is analyzing the gelatinous guts inside our head
    And marvel at the discovery that the entire universe
    Is hidden inside of them, that the universe is the stuffing
    Of those creamy blood-sausages, that the human skull is the only home
    Where the cosmos squeezed himself to live.
    The horror is studying this universe when it gangrenes,
    When conscience becomes an open wound
    And we try to clear its infection and understand
    The language of its pus and deciphering the buzzing of its flies...
    Anyway, for better or worse, the truth is that we are special creatures.
    I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that maybe we are something unique
    In all off space and all off time, I do not find it absurd to theorize
    That only after lodging inside the shell of the human skull
    The eye of the universe opened for the first time.
    Take a few seconds to think about it. Isn't it amazing?
    An eye with the color of infinity bloomed inside our heads,
    An eye that spreads the palpation of its pupil to such distant limits
    That the spirit itself is panting as it tries to follow him.
    But there is a catch. That eye sometimes gets sick,
    And for a psychiatrist to force himself to contemplate all of creation
    Being corroded by conjunctivitis is extremely painful.
    Remember, we're talking about infinite space
    Living for rent inside a tiny bone shell.
    Think of the elemental horror and inconsolable nausea
    Of the hopes that looked into the abysses of the universe
    And were bitten by the understanding of soul’s of the abysses.
    Think of the endless loneliness of the tears that wander
    Through endless desolations, shivering with cold.
    Think of the entire cosmos sickening to the point of becoming
    All of it a dungeon, an abominable labyrinth
    Where even happiness and love enter just to be
    Murdered and torn apart to fatten nightmares so gigantic
    That they would make minotaurs look like mosquitoes.
    Seeing the suffering of a human mind is like seeing
    The larva of the despair of all nature.

    • 3 weeks ago
      Anonymous

      >And were bitten by the understanding of soul’s of the abysses.

      And were bitten by the understanding of *the soul’s of the abysses.

      • 3 weeks ago
        Anonymous

        Could they see you now /
        the whores of old would call you a cow /
        because at least they had their price /
        but you come for free.

        Yes, my words must be misogyny /
        because I hold you to the same standard that I hold all /
        and any standard at all /
        would be beyond thee.

        >inb4 'ur insel'
        See above.

        (Checked)
        There would be no apostrophe. So, just 'the souls of the abysses'.

    • 2 weeks ago
      Anonymous

      I filter material at a glance. This kept my attention, nothing offended it. The first critque thread poem in a long time to do so. I couldn't speak to the prosody of the original Portuguese, but this is at interesting.

      >The larva[l] [or "writhing"] of the despair [in] all nature.
      To suggest serpents as well. The translation appears suitable, but might benefit from some additional idiomatic gloss. Keep developing it. Thanks for posting, it was an enjoyable read.

    • 2 weeks ago
      Anonymous

      I like this. There are a few points where the prosody could be improved in translation (ie. mystery instead of discovery,) but overall this is really nice.

      Could they see you now /
      the whores of old would call you a cow /
      because at least they had their price /
      but you come for free.

      Yes, my words must be misogyny /
      because I hold you to the same standard that I hold all /
      and any standard at all /
      would be beyond thee.

      >inb4 'ur insel'
      See above.

      (Checked)
      There would be no apostrophe. So, just 'the souls of the abysses'.

      Why do you use the enjambment symbol and then enjamb? I don't get it. It's also like a Bukowski poem but without any of the ease and all of the bitterness, or his style of enjambment.

      When Prometheus was condemned to the rock, it was he that was joyful rather than the gods as they both knew what he set in motion could not be stopped. Just as the gods consumed the titans, and the titans split apart Earth and Sky, so too would mankind consume the gods. Indeed, Prometheus sat on the sidelines of the war because he knew the titans’ fates were sealed the moment Kronos birthed Zeus as all creators are fated to be butchered by their creations. From equal parts cosmic misanthropy and profound mercy he hatched a plot to end this cycle. In blessing a species as limited and numerous as man with fire, he ensured life would end with his damned creation - man would never enjoy victory in the way the gods did due to his frail nature, and slowly the fire would consume him before he could create his replacement. He knew this. The gods knew this. And as the world grew cold and silent eons later, Prometheus and the vulture, his now treasured companion, smiled warmly.

      You need more sentence variation. They are also extremely long without affect. You also start a sentence with "Indeed," which sounds like filler -- forget the word for it, but it handicaps your sentence.

      >In blessing a species as limited and numerous as man with fire, he ensured life would end with his damned creation - man would never enjoy victory in the way the gods did due to his frail nature, and slowly the fire would consume him before he could create his replacement.

      This is way, way way way too long, and way too convoluted. You're trying to sound smart. Please don't use so many commas, either.

    • 2 weeks ago
      Anonymous

      Are you the Brazilian playwright, the writer of that afghan Antigone play?

      • 2 weeks ago
        Anonymous

        Say my name

        • 2 weeks ago
          Anonymous

          Guy was always anonymous.

          • 2 weeks ago
            Anonymous

            Could you link the play then I’m curious

            • 2 weeks ago
              Anonymous

              https://warosu.org/lit/thread/S11263030#p11289907

              I’m writing a tragedy were a young Afghan woman called Malalai, after obtaining a degree to teach literature, returns to the mountain village of her ancestors, decided to open a school there. She enters in conflict with some of the village elders, while other elders support her. They made a council and eventually decide that the school will be opened. After that a series of consequences conduct the story to its final tragic climax.

              What I am sharing with you is one of the criticisms to the western education made by Malalai’s grandfather, Kala Khan. He is also the chief of the village (although he doesn’t have power to rule the village alone, but must accept the decisions of the majority of the elders of the council).

              The original is in Portuguese, metrified but without rhyme (that is, blank verse).

              If you people enjoy it I can share some more excerpts.

              KALA KHAN: Our knowledge may be limited,
              But at least it is pure, clear and healthy.
              We live well alone, leave us with our
              Small candle, our modest lamp
              And remain alone with the blinding splendor
              Of your bombs and rockets, your suns of darkness,
              Your light which, illuminating the world, makes it even bleaker.
              The eloquence of your civilization
              It is the refined tie-knot that enlace
              The neck of a barbarian, the gloves that surround
              The hands of a murderer, the talc that incenses a bear,
              A princess with cold eyes, with steel-colored eyes,
              Perfumed with gunpowder, with uranium breath.
              Just like the prostitute who muddles her face
              With so much makeup that a digger
              Could mire in the ink, which suffocates
              Her natural grace, so also your idols,
              With their inventions, pollute nature.
              In their metropolises artificial lights
              Have hypnotize the night with fictitious candor
              And the stars, banished, dissolved themselves in mourning:
              What was left for night sky is an opaque melanoma.
              The vampirism of their bureaucratic minds
              Have sucked all the poetry from the marrow of life.
              In the sun they only see an obese spotlight,
              On the moon a dry tablet of aspirin,
              The eggs they eat have for their yolk the poisonous
              Broth of batteries, their breads are modeled
              With microchip grains, with electronic flour.
              Their milk is gasoline, their olive-oil diesel;
              Their souls are so toxic and empty
              As the spray of an insecticide can.
              Their weapons, their rockets, their bombs, their tanks,
              Their warships and warplanes, all of them
              They are signs that make up the bitter confession
              In which humanity admits its failure:
              Your civilization is like a very thin and rosy
              Foam that floats in a glass of wine,
              A sugary veil of smiling order
              Sitting upon a deep ocean of blood.
              You and your race of wise men think that you will come
              As heroes to our village of Orzala, but you come
              Infected by the smallpox of science
              That, outside these walls, outside this oasis,
              Covers the entire world with sores. You and your plague
              Are not welcomed here.

              • 2 weeks ago
                Anonymous

                I also posted this some weeks ago.

                The context of this speech is this: an elderly leader from a provincial mountain village of Afghanistan is urging some of the young men of the place to take up kalashnikovs and save a Taliban lord that is being held hostage by 3 US soldiers in a barn.

                A great snowstorm was formed and is coming down upon the mountain. The elderly muslim sees the wrath of Allah in the storm and makes a speech to fuel the wills of his young students.

                The original is in Portuguese. I will post my free translation first, and then the original text.

                KALA KHAN: Look at the horizon: it is the heart of Allah
                That was cut opened: hatred bubbles out from his chest.
                Grayish and angry, the skies foam snow;
                The winds show their canines, their claws,
                Ripping and chewing the world into distortion.
                The air, roaring and growling, screaming and howling,
                Unbones the trunks of the pines, steal the leaves
                From the trees, the gale dresses himself in green,
                An emerald ghost slapping the streets.
                Lightning invades the eclipse of the atmosphere:
                His pale beak, his sparkling nails
                Excavate the dark and gnaw night like a liver.
                The clouds of lead that have docked on the heavens
                Are like colossal mountains that breathe,
                In which the bears of the windwhirls sleep.
                This is the language of Allah when infuriated:
                The appalling architecture of the tempests.

                KALA KHAN: Observem o horizonte: é o coração de Alá
                Que foi aberto: o ódio borbulha de seu tórax.
                Cinzentos e raivosos, os céus espumam neve;
                Os ventos mostram seus caninos, suas garras,
                Rasgando e mastigando o mundo em distorção.
                O ar, rugindo e roncando, gritando e uivando,
                Desossa os troncos dos pinheiros, rouba as folhas
                Das árvores; o vendaval se veste em verde,
                Um fantasma esmeralda a esbofetear as ruas.
                O relâmpago invade o eclipse da atmosfera:
                Seu bico pálido, suas unhas cintilantes
                Escavam o breu, roem a noite feito fígado.
                As nuvens de chumbo que nos céus atracaram
                São como colossais montanhas que respiram,
                Nas quais dormem os ursos dos redemoinhos.
                Essa é a linguagem de Alá enfurecido:
                A pavorosa arquitetura das tormentas.

              • 2 weeks ago
                Anonymous

                Another of the old-man's rants:

                KALA KHAN: You come to us with arrogance, as if
                You were bringing a torch to a dark cave
                Where a race of men as blind as bats
                Have been feeding on darkness for several generations.
                For you living in the big city
                The white invaders of America are angels,
                But for us the voices of these angels sound
                Like wheezes, every single one of their words
                Has for tail the rattle of a rattlesnake;
                Under the charity that they wear scales
                Shine. Yes, you, who know much more than we do,
                You believe that you work with angels, with seraphim,
                But you can be sure, oh you blind ones who see far,
                That the divine Muslim culture, the limpid
                And sacred water that kills the thirst of our souls,
                When these angels bathe in it,
                Will become greasy as the thick cream and filthy broth
                Of a harlots bathtub wash:
                We will bless ourselves with the pasty foam
                Of a dirty body. The learning that you bring us,
                The new source that you open up to nourish us,
                It is the swinish-sweat and hormone-soup of a satyr,
                Yes, it is the sweat of the obese body of sin.
                If we choose your creed and forget Islam
                We will be the dog that denies the pot of clean water
                In favor of a slimy and stagnant puddle,
                And, by drinking filth, we will populate
                The soul with worms: our immortal diamond
                Will be more rotten than the intestinal night
                Of the curs from the gutters.

                KALA KHAN: Você vem até nós com arrogância, como
                Que trazendo uma tocha a uma caverna escura
                Onde uma raça de homens cegos quais morcegos
                Se alimentam do escuro há várias gerações.
                Para você que moram na cidade grande
                Os invasores brancos da américa são anjos,
                Mas para nós as vozes desses anjos soam
                Como sibilos, cada uma de suas palavras
                Tem por cauda o chocalho de uma cascavel;
                Por sob a caridade que eles vestem brilham
                Escamas. Sim, vocês, que vem bem mais que nós,
                Creem que trabalham junto de anjos, serafins,
                Mas podem ter certeza, ó cegos que veem longe,
                Que a divina cultura muçulmana, a límpida
                Água sagrada que nos mata a sede da alma,
                Quando esses anjos se banharem nela, irá
                Ensebar-se na nata espessa e caldo imundo
                Do banho de banheira de uma meretriz:
                Nós vamos nos benzer com a espuma pastosa
                De um corpo sujo. O estudo que você nos traz,
                A nova fonte que abre para nos nutrir,
                É o suor suíno e sopa de hormônios de um sátiro,
                Sim, é o suor do corpo obeso do pecado.
                Se escolhermos seu credo e esquecermos do islã
                Seremos o cão que nega o pote de água limpa
                Em favor de uma poça limosa e estagnada,
                E, bebendo imundície, vamos povoar
                A alma com vermes: nosso diamante imortal
                Será mais podre do que a noite intestinal
                Dos vira-latas das sarjetas.

              • 2 weeks ago
                Anonymous

                https://warosu.org/lit/thread/S12541024#p12546748

                In this speech Malalai, after noticing that many of the girls she is teaching are now able to read, advises them to proceed, to keep reading, for it is, in her opinion, one of the greatest pleasures and mental-activities humans can engage in. The speech is some kind of Ode to reading.

                I apologizing in advance for the awkwardness of the English: I’m not very good with it. The original is in Portuguese, in 12-sylable line verses, but without rhyme ( it’s a blank-verse speech).

                MALALAI: And now that you have learned how to read,
                Read: this is one of the greatest pleasures in life.
                By reading you get to know multitudes of minds,
                You become other selves, taste the flavor of other souls,
                You explore the brains of different epochs, races, dogmas,
                Cultures, beliefs and countries.
                Everything that humanity thought, felt, did,
                Been, won and lost speaks to us in a clear voice
                – In the midst of the stuttering of the ages ruins –
                Through ink: it is the blood of human memory.
                Opening a book is to open someone else's skull
                Without using surgical saws and drills.
                Whoever opens a book lends flesh to a ghost:
                They are the souls of people long dead
                Who are waiting for redemption, seated in the dark, alone,
                Blind, deaf and dumb, but when you
                Open the book, hands that have now been dust for centuries
                Extend themselves towards you, still warm, to
                Caress your heads with tender consolation,
                Or even to slap the cheeks
                And pull the ears out of your dormant minds
                And shout to you: "Wake up, you who are alive!"
                People who read live a thousand lives in one life,
                As if a thousand eyes, a thousand mouths, a thousand ears
                Sprout out of their pores. To read is to discover
                What exists in the wrinkles of the forehead of a sage;
                What is the fire that burns the eyes and what songs are sung
                By the fairies that nest in the eyelashes of the poets;
                It is to see the seraphim that live inside the philosopher
                Playing the sharp and spiked violins of logic
                And the great misty organ-pipe of metaphysics;
                It is talking with kings, sultans and emperors
                Towards which no mortal could approach,
                Who lived surrounded by guards, but that now,
                In the pages of a book, have their hearts
                Cracked open, their pulsations confessing who they are.

                cont.

              • 2 weeks ago
                Anonymous

                By reading the great authors we see language,
                The medal and central aptitude of the human being,
                Fusing itself to the greatest of inventions: writing.
                To see this wedding being modeled
                By the ablest of hands, by the hands of poets
                It to see the impossible crown itself with the possible,
                To see the cat of the common verb turn into a tiger.
                The workaday language, who could only walk,
                Now is a ballerina that dances, spins and jumps;
                The idiom that, with effort, might be able to run,
                Now flies, and it is as if it could drink coffee
                With the constellations, hear their secrets,
                And make their fire dress with human language.
                Reading is the medicine and gymnastics of the spirit,
                It is equip oneself with compass and GPS
                For the voyage of living, it is the microscope
                That eviscerates the cells of being, it is the telescope
                That hunts for stars of truth in nights of ignorance.
                Great books are diving equipment,
                The scuba and flashlight with which we can
                Submerge in the mysterious oceans of the soul.
                To read is to fly in a balloon over the continents
                Of human history and see its shores and landscapes
                Become alive once more, it is like freeing
                Antarctica from the ice specter that suffocates it,
                For reading is to melt the white and mute crust
                Of oblivion: the warm breath of life
                Rises from this thaw and down below we see
                Fates that have long since been completed
                Waving their hands to us once again, their circles
                Dissolved. Therefore read, my girls.
                To live more, to know more, to be more and to feel more, read.

  2. 3 weeks ago
    Anonymous

    I hate this bitch.

    • 3 weeks ago
      Anonymous

      You’re the only one.
      She was a pleasant woman by all accounts.

    • 2 weeks ago
      Anonymous

      You must be really sour.

    • 2 weeks ago
      Anonymous

      Why?

      • 2 weeks ago
        Anonymous

        Because she writes.

      • 2 weeks ago
        Anonymous

        Wasn’t she in breakfast at Tiffany’s? Which was a masterpiece as a novella but then they put in that horrible Mickey rooney or whatever as the buckteeth japanese guy which was really horrible

        • 2 weeks ago
          Anonymous

          >Wasn’t she in bleakafastu at Tiffany’s? Whicha was a masterapiecu as a noverra but then theya put in that holliburo Mickey looney o whatevel as the buckuteefu japanese guy which wasa learry holliburo.

    • 2 weeks ago
      Anonymous

      #metoo

      Why?

      she unironically believes she is pretty but it's just because the camera angles and the director
      sure it's the same issue with a lot of actresses (e.g. Anya Taylor Joy or Ana de Armas), but Audrey somehow manages make girls believe that her artificial charm transposes beyond the screen and there is no need for any effort except obedience

      • 2 weeks ago
        Anonymous

        No, she was genuinely charming.
        And lots of people found her beautiful enough to film her that much. The jealousy is getting a little tranny in here. You best stop.

        • 2 weeks ago
          Anonymous

          >beautiful enough to film her that much
          since when was that a measure of beauty?!
          I watched Roman Holiday twice and the second time I could only feel disgust
          she obviously was not repulsive in proportions, but her physiology gave her away... hence why I brought up Anya and Ana

          • 2 weeks ago
            Anonymous
        • 2 weeks ago
          Anonymous

          Love her. There’s something of those Kazak or Mongol girls in her features.

        • 2 weeks ago
          Anonymous

          She looks like Tatoo girl, that Amelia actress, forgot her name. Tatoo is much prettier tho

          • 2 weeks ago
            Anonymous

            >Tatoo is much prettier tho

            Nah

            • 2 weeks ago
              Anonymous

              It hurts inside me like a cave of longing carved out of my entrails to know I will never have so beautiful a girl as she was in her prime.

      • 2 weeks ago
        Anonymous

        AI confirmed that Audrey is basically the most aesthetically flawless female who has ever lived. Having perfect facial genetics isn't something you can fake with camera angles.

        • 2 weeks ago
          Anonymous

          her face is too big for her head idiot

          • 2 weeks ago
            Anonymous

            AI is smarter than you. Also post tits.

            • 2 weeks ago
              Anonymous

              I like Audrey body
              but AI struggles with head
              either head is too big (though face fits it) or head normal size but face doesn't fit it
              don't know what advice to give

          • 2 weeks ago
            Anonymous

            >welcomed.
            All of Japan designs their animation after her

            • 2 weeks ago
              Anonymous

              that is a nice insight and it's admirable, but considering that Japanese face designs either are of proper size (wrapping around skull and not just placed in front of it) or have the right idea (in more abstract designs) the people drawing them probably finished arts academia first
              it's true that Aubrey's head wraps around the skull -- way better than the alternative that the face sits on the front of the skull -- but it's WAY TOO BIG

              • 2 weeks ago
                Anonymous

                It’s apparently part of what makes her adorable. Petite, elvish.
                Me, I just like brunettes

              • 2 weeks ago
                Anonymous

                >petite, elvish, brunette, playful
                >petite, elvish, brunette, annoying
                believe me, there IS a difference

              • 2 weeks ago
                Anonymous

                Yes. You are annoying

              • 2 weeks ago
                Anonymous

                I had you at the first puddle

              • 2 weeks ago
                Anonymous

                Donno what you're talking about

              • 2 weeks ago
                Anonymous

                She does

  3. 3 weeks ago
    Anonymous

    stupid LULZ poster

  4. 2 weeks ago
    Anonymous

    to key the sneed
    to get it keyed
    feels like defeat
    i bet you're praying

    to say the least..
    the single side

    flesh rotted off that joke, says I
    revealing a door
    out of that plateau
    the skelly key and he
    went, direction north
    the Tree was there
    just as before
    as always every time
    cycle rhymes follow
    rhyme 'burrow' with 'sorrow'
    and pass by as a Scythian
    year zero

    reducing everything to sneed
    unkeying: force fields
    are strong
    im so gone, im offensive to look at
    but when I put my glasses on
    I see flesh busy. That
    is pretty cool, to see features
    otherwise it's all too misty
    and demons-fears get me dizzy
    vertigo and me watching floors
    they don't move
    i'm that stupid fucking fool
    camera rolls inwards and inside out
    ive been coping by clowning out
    and the mask has grown tight
    but im not in that flesh anymore
    sitting right in front of the centaur
    who's bringing meds from the drugstore
    to seed and feed -- the Chuck's law
    told you that there are two Gods
    and they are on the same side:
    the BOG bros.

  5. 2 weeks ago
    Anonymous

    When Prometheus was condemned to the rock, it was he that was joyful rather than the gods as they both knew what he set in motion could not be stopped. Just as the gods consumed the titans, and the titans split apart Earth and Sky, so too would mankind consume the gods. Indeed, Prometheus sat on the sidelines of the war because he knew the titans’ fates were sealed the moment Kronos birthed Zeus as all creators are fated to be butchered by their creations. From equal parts cosmic misanthropy and profound mercy he hatched a plot to end this cycle. In blessing a species as limited and numerous as man with fire, he ensured life would end with his damned creation - man would never enjoy victory in the way the gods did due to his frail nature, and slowly the fire would consume him before he could create his replacement. He knew this. The gods knew this. And as the world grew cold and silent eons later, Prometheus and the vulture, his now treasured companion, smiled warmly.

  6. 2 weeks ago
    Anonymous

    suffer posting will get you nowhere

  7. 2 weeks ago
    Anonymous

    Naturmort... What's the word --
    Lebend. I'm learning German,
    bros.
    willing=creating
    Bereit.
    It's been a while like endless ages
    Dispossessed of mind
    'DUUUDE I WON A CONTEST 100 DOLLARS DUUDE'
    Affects cling like colonel major
    Payne. You see? I blew it
    Back to my muck. Ailments.
    Now I knew it.

    Centre of gravity the fiat faith of Naturmort going
    Lebend.
    Memories of that movie I am Legend
    Where Idi Amin doing his immanent thing
    (Or whatever.) Feverish dreams.
    Real krazy.

    Affects ar emons. Counter affects: waves of the
    http://ocean
    They roll in and roll out as breaths of the divine
    That's a start: in little things diligently try
    To follow my own word. Said to myself: nice
    Brb on God.

  8. 2 weeks ago
    Anonymous

    Aubrey Hepburn was the founder of The “Alldeutsche Gesellschaft für Metaphysik” (All German Society for Metaphysics), later renamed the Society of Vrilerinnen Women, better known as the Vril Society, which was a spiritual/metaphysical group involved with mediumstic contact with extraterrestrials from Aldebaran “Alpha Tauri”.

  9. 2 weeks ago
    Anonymous

    Spilling clown-nosed coils into the night - plush, parping and honking at trajectories which spiral up to the sky. Octopoid twists and twizzles rushing one upon two out of THE smallest car. The surroundings become clogged with tentacled pratfalls. Scatterings of purple limbs contract together, compress against the ground and then spiral upwards in bursts. At the centre of the kinetic frenzy, brake-light beams are cut into ribbons- obscured and revealed with each octo-beam intersection.

  10. 2 weeks ago
    Anonymous
  11. 2 weeks ago
    Anonymous

    When some character is having a spiritual/emotional revelation:

    She turned and saw the puddles, and the puddles resembled Man. Both made by the sky and cast to the earth. Both weak, unlike the storm. Brief, unlike the ocean. Shallow in joy, in truth, and in fate. Yet for those with eyes to see, and wisdom towards love, they reflect the sky and bring a sight of heaven to the world.

    • 2 weeks ago
      Anonymous

      Good but a bit on the nose by drawing it out. Maybe cut
      > Both made by the sky and cast to the earth. Both weak, unlike the storm. Brief, unlike the ocean.

      • 2 weeks ago
        Anonymous

        Thanks, I'll try to work more on it.

  12. 2 weeks ago
    Frater Asemlen

    A shadow in oblivion,
    A memory forgotten so,
    Days dark as black obsidian,
    The embers gleam is lost to cold.

    Chanting a song of transience,
    In fantasies of brass and gold,
    I walk in halls so halcyon,
    Where centuries are lost to mold,

    Where wizened statues rust to dust,
    Characters fading on broke bowls,
    The lantern’s vibrant lustre but,
    A daze of lethargy aglow,

    I sit and drink with shadow friends,
    And wonder over timeless scrolls,
    As the dark vault flames astral jets,
    Tracing out letters in my soul.

    • 2 weeks ago
      Anonymous

      liked it Anon

    • 2 weeks ago
      Anonymous

      breddy kewl

Your email address will not be published.