So the light had vanished,
and nothing could be seen.
What was left of the world we knew?
Where could it be?
We search the land,
the ocean and the sky.
Perhaps it was all our imagination,
written down and succumbed to our mind.
© Christopher Stamfors
Tear your attention
Away from the past
Take one step backwards
The future will not let you pass
© Christopher Stamfors
Curse ideas in all their form
What use are they to achieve one’s goal?
When the demon roams the hall
Of the membrane we must fall
And what if fate one looks
Finding a road one mustn’t take
When your life was a mistake
In a world of hate
© Christopher Stamfors
Nobody lies down to die
At the prospect of betterment
For giving up is the same as death
© Christopher Stamfors
What we want and what we need
are two different things
Things with purpose,
Oftan striving towards a goal,
Things that help us reach said goal
With purpose we make.
But with purpose comes needs,
Things that are more important than others
More difficult.
We tend to avoid them
Waste the day away at things that are numbing,
Without purpose
unimportant.
Do we need it?
Do we want it?
Questions asked in futility
For we already know them,
Yet we avoid them.
Our true purpose hidden
In a cloud of doubt
© Christopher Stamfors
Waves of the desert, dunes rising high, they are the bridges across the empty stretches, of the land where nothing survive.
But across this empty land, there lie riches abundant, foreign lands who yearn our wares.
We are are the people of the forest, where the goddess shed her tears.
Good coin is to be had in things we find most common, gifts by the goddess which foreigners would do anything to get their hands on.
Yet the strait between is vast, and it’s too soon to count our fortune, much can go wrong when riding the waves of torture.
Carry us high, Oh dunes of the dry land, the fair golden grain that are harsh and coarse, the deadly wind which we must put our faith in, we, our lives are at Death’s door.
© Christopher Stamfors
If you liked this you might like Invisible Touch…
Fair winds blow on my back
I shout and my voice carries far
Everyone can hear it
Everyone can tell me I am wrong
How bad I am
*
The world is simple
Only two voices can be heard
Opposite of mind
One is right and the other is wrong
Nothing is diverse.
Most is interchangeable
And everything is convoluted.
© Christopher Stamfors
NOW this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky;
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.
As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back —
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.
Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep;
And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep.
The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown,
Remember the Wolf is a Hunter — go forth and get food of thine own.
Keep peace withe Lords of the Jungle — the Tiger, the Panther, and Bear.
And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair.
When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail,
Lie down till the leaders have spoken — it may be fair words shall prevail.
When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar,
Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war.
The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home,
Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come.
The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain,
The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again.
If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay,
Lest ye frighten the deer from the crop, and your brothers go empty away.
Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can;
But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man!
If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride;
Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide.
The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies;
And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies.
The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will;
But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill.
Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim
Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same.
Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claim
One haunch of each kill for her litter, and none may deny her the same.
Cave-Right is the right of the Father — to hunt by himself for his own:
He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone.
Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw,
In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of your Head Wolf is Law.
Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they;
But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is — Obey!
I think I’ll go ahead and read the Jungle Book now…
Their steps can be heard all over the valley
A thumping noise that makes the ground tally
But only at full moon do they show, for they move in the darkness
Even the ground hides their stroll
Nobody had been hurt by their heavy steps
Nor was the forest in tatters
Its as if they does not exist
Perhaps it is the fantasy of the people in the unknown
For life is simple, imagination is what we’ve grown
© Christopher Stamfors
The alley echoed hollow on the empty street
Silence is a virtue by ghostly creed
Old houses and graveyards, is where they’d like to be
Hollow beings which the living cannot see
They are bound by the earth as long as they are remembered
Cast to the unknown, they prefer to stay unattended
For nobody knows what lay beyond
Are you going to heaven
Or hell as a thrall?
© Christopher Stamfors
Drew the cover image by myself this time around, although very hastily…
The Horrors of Writing 