illu. of Boredom
dedicated to J, hope after seeing this verbal illustration, it would help you understand your feelings better.
Have you noticed?
Depression sweeps over the populi like an uncontrolled plague; like the fire of a century burning everyone down like dried hay; like a great deluge drowning everyone in their own miserable tears; like an ebon cloud stretched to the infinite, touching horizon to horizon, masking the human race from any divine assistance.
Our nerves crack and split into thousands of fragments like chain lightning the storm brought along with. They strangle and jab us with their forked presence and leave as swiftly as they came. Several instants of insanity, numerous frames of rage but the worst as yet to end – the eternal immolation from the flames of boredom.
The rain then starts to fall, Soaking and painting us and everything around with a shade of dark grey. Robbing the color’s joy from the joy of colors, suffocating all that is cheerful and energetic. The pour doused the landscape, our source of inspiration and with that gone, doused our spirits and will as well. The only thing the rain has failed to reduce is the burning embers from under our bare-naked feet. We trod on grounds where the Flame has trodden. We walk, at the mercy of the Ashes.
We stand… at the brink of oblivion by flame.
We stand… at the brink of extinction by Rain.
We live… by the strict script of an authored play,
We live… in the shadows of a living plague.
The plague corrupts not only the temples that we prize dearly, but the conscience we prize ever so more. The only Grey that we like liquefies and hemorrhages from within. Casting the grey a dye of rosen red, but the scent was far from the fragrance of the color. It smelled of Death itself, in our own heads now gushing out like the Rain and burning in like the Flame out of every pore we have.
The blood of life, falls off our noses onto the ashen ground. The ground stings at our blood as they reunited. The ground hissed and coughed a pillar of abyssal smoke. There was a brief moment where the orange embers turned brown then black. But fueled by its comrades and fiery brothers in arms….
It returned an ember glow, as its Vengeance grows.
Doused not the flames of woe, Dry not the numbing flow
Calm not the endless rage,
Hinder not,
The advance of age.
This is said of the Kingdom of Boredom, and so it is written
Have you noticed?
Depression sweeps over the populi like an uncontrolled plague; like the fire of a century burning everyone down like dried hay; like a great deluge drowning everyone in their own miserable tears; like an ebon cloud stretched to the infinite, touching horizon to horizon, masking the human race from any divine assistance.
Our nerves crack and split into thousands of fragments like chain lightning the storm brought along with. They strangle and jab us with their forked presence and leave as swiftly as they came. Several instants of insanity, numerous frames of rage but the worst as yet to end – the eternal immolation from the flames of boredom.
The rain then starts to fall, Soaking and painting us and everything around with a shade of dark grey. Robbing the color’s joy from the joy of colors, suffocating all that is cheerful and energetic. The pour doused the landscape, our source of inspiration and with that gone, doused our spirits and will as well. The only thing the rain has failed to reduce is the burning embers from under our bare-naked feet. We trod on grounds where the Flame has trodden. We walk, at the mercy of the Ashes.
We stand… at the brink of oblivion by flame.
We stand… at the brink of extinction by Rain.
We live… by the strict script of an authored play,
We live… in the shadows of a living plague.
The plague corrupts not only the temples that we prize dearly, but the conscience we prize ever so more. The only Grey that we like liquefies and hemorrhages from within. Casting the grey a dye of rosen red, but the scent was far from the fragrance of the color. It smelled of Death itself, in our own heads now gushing out like the Rain and burning in like the Flame out of every pore we have.
The blood of life, falls off our noses onto the ashen ground. The ground stings at our blood as they reunited. The ground hissed and coughed a pillar of abyssal smoke. There was a brief moment where the orange embers turned brown then black. But fueled by its comrades and fiery brothers in arms….
It returned an ember glow, as its Vengeance grows.
Doused not the flames of woe, Dry not the numbing flow
Calm not the endless rage,
Hinder not,
The advance of age.
This is said of the Kingdom of Boredom, and so it is written
posted by Killl_Roy at 12:06 PM
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