Nathrangking

At this moment I feel the need to quickly rant. I feel like such a hack. I write and no matter what it is the most common response is that its too much and over the top. Criticism is not my issue. I know it's necessary, but I can't be something that I'm not. My voice and style are my own and yet it seems as though the world would have me toss it away. If I can't write my way then why don't I quit? I could stop writing and then no one would have to deal with my over the top ways. This always bothered me and it has only gotten worse in the past months. If not for a few who actually seem to like my work I might have hung up my pen. That my writing idol likes my work is just enough to keep me going. 

Sorry for my rant. Carry on.

The poetry is flowing here is three more for any interested parties.

A song then sung

Dread becomes pure joy.

Singing by sapphire waters.

Majestic marching.

Enough?

Feasts come from above. 

There is no rest to follow.

Most joyful feasting.

Enough

Resting most sublime.

The greatest joy is absent.

Still satisfaction.

#29                                                          

                                                              Truthful?

Surging waters sing songs that rise and fall with a rhythm that even nature struggles to replicate without mocking this tune. Up above tears spill from the eyes of the divine as they are stricken by chords more sublime than anything else in the cosmos. Silk and velvet purer than anything that even gods can weave enshroud all worlds in a cloak more sinuous than all of the rivers that have ever existed. Emotions so inflammatory and yet peaceful fuse with the living soul of the ever running tributary of time itself. Everything is overcome by feelings that rise no matter how strongly they are pushed down. Birds weep as they fly high above the mortals that are bound to the lower realms. Even the greatest of beasts bawls in the most uncontrollable of ways and shamefully drowns the ground. Cities hum not dirges, but something so much mightier than even the screaming of the most feared warrior dying upon the field of battle. It rends the heart and stops the breathing of monsters that charge from the deep. Note after note inspires visions beyond any banal words. Describing the waves as they crash against the rocks of thought even as in the same instant it laps against the shore defies the power of the poet. His ink is formless as primordials sit in shadows too overcome to rule any longer. Where do these unnatural storms ascend to this place from? What source ruins cities whose foundations were laid in weathered steel by beings lost to myths long lost? Instead of growing weaker it swells with every passing moment becoming something so very alive. Forms immortal in every aspect sweeten the world more than even the heart of the most perfect honeycomb. No perfumer, artist, baker, vintner, or musician can reach so deeply and overwhelm all senses in a single supreme moment of clarity that lasts endless lifetimes even while it fades to silence.

#28                                                         

Lost and Found

Dancing spirits spin in the silver beams woven of cool flame that descend upon the mortal realm and bathe it in fire. Cities filled with carvers that take the ribs of the realm and sculpt them into temples to boastful deities face the oceans which approach alone. Forests blessed by neutral rulers fade beneath unforgiving ice. Pines create walls of frozen and jagged sand that rips across the surface of the land. None rise up with weapons or shield in hand when the natural world flees until it can go no further. Into the abyss they leap as citadel walls begin to buckle and break beneath the maw of an implacably hungry beast. The stars cry out when they are torn from on high and cast into the numbing destruction below. Bones creak while the most frigid monsters stalk the innocent where they sleep. Rooms secured behind locks of iron are havens for, but moments before nightmarish things claim their meals. Torches cast mocking shadows that only grow in their power and reach. On high once complacent gods see their slumbers shattered into an endless sea of prismatic shards. They rain down storms and even step out into the mortal plane, but they are pushed back by this power that even they cannot name. Armor splinters and seeds the ground with magic that calls woodlands into being. Spells flash across the night devastating the landscape and opening up a portal into a hellscape beyond imagining. From the depths a ringing rallying call comes forth. Weapons that burn with a silent subtle warmth lash out and set tbe land free from its chilly bondage. That which has no name flees into the darkness where it thinks that the light does not go. This day fire and ice meet in a clash that is born of siblings and old friends reuniting at long last. These spin and dance in harmony while those who have seen begin to reweave reality and carve anew.