DARKREALM IS AN ADULT CHAT EVRYONE IS WELCOME ALL AGES ARE WELCOME IT IS AN COOL CHAT ROOM ALL THE MODS THERE ARE NICE THEY ALSO CHANGE YOUR NAME COLORS AND NAME IF LIKE AND WE ALSO HAVE AL SORT OF ROOMS AND WE CAN EVEN MAKE YOU ROOMS IS A RPING CHAT ALSO AND COOL EMOTES AND CHAT WATCHES AND COOL ICONS TO CHOSE FROM ALL IS WELCOME TO COME HOPE TO SEE YOU THER ThanksThe ChatMaster AkA Seth Salvatore http://www.darkrealm.ca
Sorry I haven't been on-line a lot lately...life caught me and forced me to participate lol...;.ummm This poem is a real departure for me, I'm not sure it works....Let me know what you think??
Flotsam and Jetsam
I listen to my shallow breathing... As it echoes near and far... My sanity is close to leaving... My imaginings seem so damn bizarre. Aberrations she whispers in my ear... A lover's oath...as if I held her dear.
Cruel wind of change... I shiver in her chill embraces... She leads me to such dark soul places... Screams out her hate... Her disdain for social graces... And reveals to me...eldritch demon faces.
Caught in her storm... My lost soul quaking... I watch her gather foul debris... There seems to be no way of waking... Cruel wind refuses... To set me free.
Oh, return... Return, sweet soft existence... Clothe yourself in gentler form... Don't leave me ruined... And sorely torn... Left broken by your harsh indifference.
She gathers flotsam... From shipwrecked souls... Using lies and majiks she controls... To ferret out sweet tender pieces... Soul-jetsam devoured... As her dementia increases.
Dark thoughts as black as roses bloom... Bringing mages of stark white rooms... Their walls depicting gallows' scenes... I listen... To hear her awful screams. ...An urgent madness looms.
Such madness brings me blinding pain... To feed upon... What my soul contains. Disharmony's black bytches strut... Each eager to inflict the cut... That sends me to that place again.
I seem to hear course yammering... The sound of lost souls... Hammering... Forging cruel hot iron shackles... To bind their wrists as hell-fire crackles... Their smoking bones the coals.
Such fevered dreams accompany me... My pale organs bringing... Ecstasy. To she who haunts my memory... I only imagined... That I was free.
I thought I would stop by with an offering to the almighty Industrial god....so lets all take our injections.......throw paint at the walls......and start our Tuesday right !!!? Hope this helps !
I posted a video of my poem "Toltec Dreams" on your page a few weeks ago....the poem described a horrible event foretold by many cultures...a time of great tribulation.........The following poem (I have yet to put it into a video format) describes the promise for the coming age .... after the time of cleansing ... a promise of peace to come. I hope you enjoy it.
The Promise
I open to sweet Aether's promise, old majik demands my full attention... Merging with ancestral memory, intent embraces lost traditions. Power stalks the earth tonight, searching for a willing vessel... As it was in ages past, seeking only those whose hearts can tell.
I feel delicious power merging, dancing with my soul again... I chant forgotten words of power, I sing my peoples' sad refrain. For it is time to right the wrongs, punish those who would not see... Those who only sought their pleasure, those who claimed we were not free.
I hear the screams of women still, wailing echoes from the past... My tears reflect lost children's faces, crimes I'm unwilling...to let pass. Madness flowing in my veins, the lines of power bending... Earth groaning in anticipation, as I begin my awful sending.
I call upon my fallen brethren, call their bodies from the grave... Bone and sinew formed from dust, their warrior souls so proud and brave. Legions rise from sacred ground, gnashing teeth demanding blood... As with the gentle rippling waters, that join together to bring the flood.
Oh, wash this land free of the filth, sweep those away that raped our nation... My blade thirsts for retribution, my lips form forbidden incantations. I bring with me forgotten majik, truths our elders once knew well... Wachichu souls depraved and shallow, now consigned to white-man's hell.
Once again the children play, the women sing...the wise-men pray... My thirsty soul soaked in the blood, of vanquished enemies, today.
well at the moment i am sitting on my ship in the middle pacific cruising to the next port which i am really excited about going white water rafting it gonna be great
Here is a tale of greed and corruption...Cibola was the mythical location of the "seven cities of gold" sought by heroes....Most notably by Coronado among the Pueblo peoples of what was to become the desert southwest of the United States. His methods for gathering information included rape, pillaging, and murder....nice guy, hunh??? This, my latest imagining, confirms that the "Beast", in truth lays within mankind's heart. I hope you enjoy my latest.....perhaps I could get your feedback???
Cibola (evil bytch)
Sentient metropolis formed of gilded bricks, sought by heroes through-out the ages... Bytch masquerades as a modern city, perverting truth found...in prophecy's pages. Such foul evil dwells within her heart, it feeds this corpse of urban-blight... Awakening mankind's slinking fears, feeding her desire for eternal night.
Back-lit-desert skies and silken thighs, beckon to neo-demon losers... Inviting greedy shallow posers, and with them scores of cruel abusers... To gather upon her concrete byways, amidst the glitzy high-rise towers... To couple in her seedy rooms, and spill their blood...in the darker hours.
Players confer in her shadowed alleys, neon harbingers flash the news... Nuns strut their vulgar sunday-habits, their bodies scarred by rude tattoos. Parishioners vie for sweet redemption, held prisoner by their oaken pews... And children in their plastic classrooms, continue...to be sorely used.
Such actions please her foul intent, marking her profane ascendance... Like sheep we seek such false transcendence... Denying our primal independence.
Rutting imps achieve their satisfaction, quickening this bytch's swollen womb... Insuring mankind's cruel destruction, their lost souls adorn creation's tomb. Her swollen fecund belly stretching, diseased prophets screaming their approval... Claiming we were worthless vassals, arranging for our prompt removal.
A birth foretold by men of knowledge, their plotting soon to be rewarded... With riches that overflow their coffers, to first be counted...before it's hoarded. Unwitting pawns they've proved to be, they and their sweaty machinations... Humanity's death their true reward, the spawn of their wretched masturbation.
At last the beast roars his desire, once more to walk upon this plane... Bytch spreads her thighs in wet compliance, welcoming her birthing pain. Womb weeping with each fell contraction, pain nearly driving her insane... And thus is born the Lord of Flies, to feast on stolen souls again.
As was foretold down countless ages, greed lubricates perverted actions... Like sheep some seek such interaction... They find no lasting satisfaction.
