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Morning SongOh no, now here; the day doth come
To me, just me, her only one
Hail to the Day, a voice dares say
Oh go, just go, aloud I pray
Come now, wake now, pull up from your bed
The voice rails on, and it fills my head
Alas my friend now you must awake
Alas my friend, for it's all at stake
Away, I cry with utmost fervour
I can't and I won't, not by my honour
Not now and not then, there's work to be done
I cringe and I thrash but there's nowhere to run
O' taxes, o' wages, these things you must pay
Want work and wont waste as to blend all each day
For now I awake, as I begin my mourning
And so it goes, it must each morning
I rise and I shine with my own desirous rage
For now I creep onto my own little stage
Now I'll dance and I'll laugh and I'll tarry
All to keep lordly taskmaster merry
It is what it is, they tell me now
And silence is my answer when then I ask how
The way of the world is my answer they say
And why is my question, oh now and each day
It is what it is and nothing ever changes
East and NorthTwo travelers sat together on a bench as they were ferried across the wide mouth of the river towards their individual destinations. Occasionally the ferryman glanced back at the two travelers in silent contemplation, other times the ferryman looked back at the two travelers in silent humor, other times still the ferryman would look back at the two travelers and say nothing at all, think nothing and pass no judgment. No matter how the ferryman looked, he kept his silence, for under the cover of the ages, the ferryman had learned that silence was the observer's best friend.
On right side of the bench there sat a man of fair complexion. With skin as white as the driven snow and long flaxen locks hat fell over his face and beard, the pale man sat quietly but readily, his arms were bare, the Runic inscriptions in his flesh were free for all to see and interpret as they chose. His torso was covered by a shirt of ancient design, he wore ancient pants but travelled with fur-covered boots and
My thoughts on WyrdThe question plagues me; if all a man is, is a creature composed of basic instincts and neurons and neuoroglia, than whence comes fee-will? If we follow the doctrine of the scientific blind-siders than we inevitably lose ourselves in an orgy of deceit. Man is more than extrapolated impulses and evolved sensibilities, it is a creature of spirit and origin. No doubt, it is the sour, jaded, dualistically and utterly fiscally cynical nature of man that denies him the enmity to see truth. Because man cannot fathom spirit and soul and their sweet matrices does not mean they do not exist. It simply means that man is stupid, or misguided.
Does the tree still fall in the woods if no sound accompanies it? To assume that what we cannot see does not exist is sheer, opulent petulance, arrogance at the best. They say the Gods are in the details, but man refuses to believe what it cannot feel against it's own stinking flesh.
Now, I could prattle on about Wyrd as an argument stopper and how faith in W
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More