I See the Pyramids

I see the pyramids—the triangle things
The golden sands—the sphinx, its paws

And I see the cityscape—for there's no escape
Even the ancient wonder—is torn asunder

And the illusion—is broken

Space

Drifting, changing,
Forever redefined,

Shifting, phasing,
Always evolving,

The constant in
Eternal dance.

The Edge

In the grand order
We stand meaningless,
Limited in our condition.

We dream and vision
Treks and wars
In our battlefield of imagination.

But even our wildest dreams,
Our grandest visions,
Halt their advance
At the edge of the galaxy.

And none dare go further.
We remain,
Unable to penetrate
The shrouded void.

Love

Can I, in some deep dream,
Own to myself this feeling grand,
Veiled in mystery and
Etheric in its nature?

Just, only rarely
And still it embraces
Me and all others who live.
Evermore it continues,
Sweet and sour

Holy and divine,
Of God's own domain,
Love is something more,
Dearer.
Esteemed it shall be
Now and forever.

Enough

I am not the smartest,
I can be really dumb.

I am not the bravest,
Nor am I the strongest,
I am not the funniest,
Or the loudest.

I am not the best,
Or the most of anything.

But I can have a lightbulb
Alight atop my head,

I can run into the fires
And carry your burdens.

I can at times manage
To make you laugh,
And I can laugh myself
Out loud without a care.

And though I am not 
The most of anything

I yearn to be myself
And can only hope

That is enough.

Write a Poem

Write a poem,
Any poem;
It can be about whatever
And take any shape you wish.

It could be about rainbows and butterflies
About the warmth of love
Or the bitterness of its passing.

It might be about the kings of old
Their eternal empires
And their now decayed might.

It might be a sonnet,
Shakespearean or otherwise.
Or perhaps something fragmented,
A falling leaf in the wind.

It could have colour; yellows and reds and oranges,
And it could resemble a horse.

It could be an assortment of stones
Of various sizes, somewhere in the woods,
Where a stranger might one day stumble upon it,
Or not.

Write a poem,
Or rather
Allow it to emerge.

Unfiltered thought in a few scattered words
Be they ink, coal or rock,
On paper or out in the world.

Write a poem,
And allow yourself to feel
The flow.

Not because anyone will read it,
Or allow it to flow through themselves.
Not because of praise or glory,
For few have that luxury.

Write a poem,
To explore your truest self.

Write a poem,
To reach for
Immortality.

Birthday

It comes around once more
That dreadful day,
Where no words are said,
No songs are sung.

Where the silence
Of those who matter most
Echoes within
My pit of self-pity.

Where all goes wrong
And my decreed smile
Is ne'er born.

Waltz

And once more
The joy and the woe
Dance their waltz

And here I lie
Intoxicated
By their beating hearts.

Awaiting something
That is born anew.

To Understand

This sunshine of mine
That at times
Sinks into a dark abyss.

It drives me mad
Trying to understand
Its inner workings.

A hundred reasons;
Any number of them
Enough to boggle the mind.

I do not understand
What makes the world go around.
And I fail to understand
My own self.

What are these things within,
I ask again.
And the answers echo
Onto deaf ears.

Various colours
Dancing their dance;
And I'm left asking questions
With no easy answers.

I fail to understand
Many a thing
But I keep trying
All the same.

Slices of Ham

I thought I knew poverty
When mom sliced the slices of ham in half,
So they would last for double the sandwiches.

But a day came,
When we stopped buying ham at all.

And then we stopped buying bread.

A Meaningless Jog

Life is a meaningless jog
Through space and time.
It hardly matters
Who lives or dies.

But sometimes,

Sometimes there's a cat
That I wish to scratch,

Sometimes an afternoon
Is spent in good company

And sometimes
I crave a beer, and so I have one,
or two,

Or three.

There's that movie I wish to yet see,
And a game I have to finish.
A shelfful of books I have to read.

And whilst none of it
Has any real purpose—
Divine or grand—
It is fun to breathe,
So I keep going.

Turtleneck

I missed it all
Living in this shell.

Turtleneck.

I made hell
And here I dwell,
Dying.

Yearning

An insatiable lust and
Endless curiosity,
Faced with terror
Beyond relief.

What I yearn
And what could be,
But if I can, if I even should;
I cannot tell.

That What is Missing

We were together
For so very long,
And one afternoon
You were gone.

Things change
And it is easier now;
Yet I still miss you,
My dearest friend.

Sometimes I Wonder

Sometimes I wonder
What could've been
If things had gone
Just a little different.

What Could've Been

Where we all grow
At our own pace
At times I
Feel left behind.

Where we all face
Many things
On some I
Missed out.

In a world
Of wonder
I am left
Wondering

Of what could've been.

I Just Need a Hug

Sometimes
I just need a hug
To carry on, 
To stand strong.

That warm embrace
Of a trusted friend
To right all wrongs
Bring them to their end.

It's my need,
But to ask
It makes me tremble,
That tremendous task.

This fear
Tears me to bits,
And the words
Never reach my lips.

And so life goes on
And I never see
That warm embrace
I so desperately need.

If only it were easier
To ask
Alas, it is
A tremendous task.

On the Dwarves of the Darkwood

Of the Dwarven peoples, the varieties residing within and on the outskirts of the Darkwood Forest—encompassing all of the Davos province and sizable portions outside it—are often overlooked. Quiet peoples, the Darkwood Dwarves would best be categorised in two: the hairless and tan peoples living deep in the forest, and the hairier and generally pale peoples living by the edge. These two groups are sometimes called halflings or gnomes, though there is an evident lack of consistency to these names of exonymic nature. Clearer would be to refer to these two groups as Deepwood Dwarves and Edgewood Dwarves respectively, and together to refer to them as Darkwood Dwarves, though these too would inherently be exonyms. Reality is that the groups are obscure, and folks even within the immediate region are often ignorant to their existence. Given that all their kin fall within Imperial domain, it would be fairer to treat them with some basic regard, even if they are a minority even in their home areas.

On a general level the Darkwood Dwarves are technologically inferior to their northern cousins—particularly the Deepwood variety stubbornly sticks to their traditional ways, not unlike the other inhabitants of the Darkwood, whereas the Edgewood variety has largely adopted the imperial way of life.

The varieties of Dwarvish the groups utilise are mostly unintelligible to their northern counterparts. Close analysis reveals some common vocabulary, but the languages seem to have drifted apart over a long period of time. Deepwood Dwarvish has evidently been influenced by the Lagosi language, and has less in common with Common Dwarvish than Edgewood Dwarvish does. Edgewood Dwarvish on the other hand poses more similarities to Common Dwarvish, hinting at more contact with their northern cousins when compared to their Deepwood counterparts. The Deepwood and Edgewood varieties are evidently separate languages, though do to a degree form a dialect continuum.

 

Deepwood Dwarves

Records on the dwarves living deep within the forest are sparce. They seem to have been in close contact with the Lagosi people as well as Giants in the region—how far into history these contacts go and what was their general nature remains unknown. The Deepwood Dwarves are isolationist, rarely engaging with imperial business, though given the poor level of infrastructure within the forest, opportunities for prolonged cooperation have remained scarce. The Deepwood Dwarves almost exclusively practise traditional and unorganised faiths.

Edgewood Dwarves

The dwarves residing on the outskirts of the forest are far more ingrained into imperial society, having adopted many of its cultural tenets as their own. Some appear to worship the Mother, whereas others remain with traditional faiths of the ancestral spirits of the woods.

 

—Scholar Daren Gondar, Faculty of Culture, Imperial Academy

A Cat

Outside, I saw a cat
It was big and fat
And it was wearing a hat,
And gave chase to a rat.

There I sat,
Staring at
That pussycat.

A Soldier's Letter

Dear mother,

It has been some time since I last wrote. The past moons have been a test of endurance and sheer will, and the hardships continue to pile atop one another. I was unsure whether I could again face you with the same pride and courage I displayed when we departed for our mission, in what feels so long ago. And this question I have pondered for a while, and I have deep disdain for the answer. I cannot retain that pride and courage, for I have lost all sense of it.

Everything changed when we passed those godforsaken mountains, and entered the vastness beyond. It began slowly, but it soon became clear we were on foreign soil and at our wit's end. The swift victories of the capital turned into sour defeats—many a man fell when they descended upon us like a pack of hungry wolves. The lucky ones perished with haste, and the others' fates I care not even describe. Regardless, battered and rundown we carried on, and our so-valued discipline and order turned into vicious savagery.

Once we finally tasted victory again and beat them back, we lost what little honour, civility and wisdom we managed to drag with us past those mountains. The Mesasi showed little mercy in battle, but what we did that day yet continues to haunt me.

Those men who survived the battle we cut down—some received what we called "swift justice", others were in agony for days. Justice we called it. Men were cut, bled and defiled, and left to rot under the sun to be feasted upon by all manner of critters and beasts.

The following day we reached their women and children. We cut down all the boys old enough to walk, and then those who could not, and ensured every woman with child was with child no longer. We cut down their priests and elders—anyone with any apparent worth. We raped and pillaged and tortured; channelled all the rage the realm held for these people, as the field turned crimson.

Good soldiers follow orders, but what mind was there to follow such orders, to cut down children in front of their mothers, to murder infants in face of the fear of what they could grow up to be.

We erased a people that day.

We committed abhorrent sins beyond those mountains, such that deserve us no rewards, nor praise or glory. But at home we would be hailed as heroes; the brave soldiers who saved this crumbling empire from an army of savages. We call them savages, but if they are savages I do know not what that makes us. Every word of appreciation brings me so much shame.

I fear I cannot brave facing you again, nor can I face anyone back home. I died the day those mountains faded into the horizon.

I ask not for your understanding nor forgiveness—I am not sure if even the Great Mother could grant me that. I only ask that you allow the me that left that day to fade away, for the monster I returned as deserves no less.

—Goran