Now that my writers block is gone i can right poems and other stuff again. here is my new poem.
What a wondrous love it is
To bind two souls in faith,
Chained completely together
With never a false word,
Weal and woe, wish and real,
Woven each together
From first kiss to last breath,
First and last whispered in love.
Alone in the Night
By: Matthew Bowen
In the middle of the night
I wake hoping to see the sight
Of the heavenly grace
That is her sweet face
But all there is to see
Is lonely little me
'Appropriation is nothing new. Everything happens of itself. This motif is by no means unassociated with hero myths. You have not acted with the creative impulse; you fall below the weight of destiny. We are graves but not coffins. Know the difference. You have only dug more and supplied no ghosts to reside within. Central to your claim is the predominance of frail events. To be judged by the earth is to sit on a throne of wonder why. Damage us more and you will find naught but the absence of our dead.'
Fly to me
Fly to my heart,
So u may know how much I love u.
Fly to my mind,
So u can see that u r always on it.
Fly into my arms,
So I can hold u forever.
My love Iask ounce more,
FLy to me.
Another poem by me
What he puts his hand to, that shall be done.
What is left undone, that shall be done.
On a certain day to uncertain parents
Incarnate moon and star reborn.
Neither blight nor age can harm him.
The Curse-of-Flesh before him flies.
In caverns dark Azura's eye sees
And makes to shine the moon and star.
A stranger's voice unites the Houses.
Three Halls call him Hortator.
A stranger's hand unites the Velothi.
Four Tribes call him Nerevarine.
He honors blood of the tribe unmourned.
He eats their sin, and is reborn.
His mercy frees the cursed false gods,
Binds the broken, redeems the mad.
He speaks the law for Veloth's people.
He speaks for their land, and names them great.
another poem
Rise from darkness, Red Mountain!
Spread your dark clouds and green vapors!
Birth earthquakes, shatter stones!
Feed the winds with fire!
Flay the tents of the tribes from the land!
Feed the burned earth with our souls!
Yet never shall you have your rule over me.
Never shall I tremble or flinch from your power.
Never shall I yield my home and hearth.
And from my tears shall spring forth
The flowers of grassland springs.
another poem
ALL CRIES ARE WAKING!
Whitest White of all White!
Blackest Blacks of all Blacks!
Shame and Son, Sun, and Shadow!
Stronger than gods, brighter than mortals!
Only He is Awake!
Only He is Alive!
He Knows the Names and the Naming!
He Knows the Wait and the Waiting!
He Enters into every Star and Moon!
He Shines through their Shadows!
One Shape, One Spelling!
One Wraith, One Casting!
From Darkness, He is Armed!
From Light, He is Warded!
He is All Things!
Drake! Liche! Theomen!
On rivers of fire he comes forth!
Through storms of dreams he rides!
With slivers of steel he pierces the Heart!
All Spells, Powers, Curses Broken!
The Chains are Shattered!
The Scales Fall Away!
I see you with MY EYE!
And all is SILENCE!
I Wake! I Remember!
LORD!
a poem in titled "The Stranger"
When earth is sundered, and skies choked black,
And sleepers serve the seven curses,
To the hearth there comes a stranger,
Journeyed far 'neath moon and star.
Though stark-born to sire uncertain,
His aspect marks his certain fate.
Wicked stalk him, righteous curse him.
Prophets speak, but all deny.
Many trials make manifest
The stranger's fate, the curses' bane.
Many touchstones try the stranger.
Many fall, but one remains.
another one of my poems
Broken battlements and wrecked walls
Where worship of the Horror once embraced.
The bites of fifty winters frost and wind
Have cracked and pitted the unholy gates,
And brought down the cruel, obscene spire.
All is dust, all is nothing more than dust.
The blood has dried and screams have echoed out.
Framed by hills in the wildest, forelorn place
Of Morrowind
Sits the barren bones of Abernanit.
When thrice-blessed Rangidil first saw Abernanit,
It burnished silver bright with power and permanence.
A dreadful place with dreadful men to guard it
With fever glassed eyes and strength through the Horror.
Rangidil saw the foes' number was far greater
Than the few Ordinators and Buoyant Armigers he led,
Watching from the hills above, the field and castle of death
While it stood, it damned the souls of the people
Of Morrowind.
Accursed, iniquitous castle Abernanit.
The alarum was sounded calling the holy warriors to battle
To answer villiany's shield with justice's spear,
To steel themselves to fight at the front and be brave.
Rangidil too grasped his shield and his thin ebon spear
And the clamor of battle began with a resounding crash
To shake the clouds down from the sky.
The shield wall was smashed and blood staunched
The ground of the field, a battle like no other
Of Morrowind
To destroy the evil of Abernanit.
The maniacal horde were skilled at arms, for certes,
But the three holy fists of Mother, Lord, and Wizard pushed
The monster's army back in charge after charge.
Rangidil saw from above, urging the army to defend,
Dagoth Thras himself in his pernicious tower spire,
And knew that only when the heart of evil was caught
Would the land e'er be truly saved.
He pledge then by the Temple and the Holy Tribunal
Of Morrowind
To take the tower of Abernanit.
In a violent push, the tower base was pierced,
But all efforts to fell the spire came to naught
As if all the strength of the Horror held that one tower.
The stairwell up was steep and so tight
That two warriors could not ascend it side by side.
So single-file the army clambered up and up
To take the tower room and end the reign
Of one of the cruellest petty tyrants in the annals
Of Morrowind,
Dagoth Thras of Abernanit.
They awaited a victory cry from the first to scale the tower
But silence only returned, and then the blood,
First only a rivulet and then a scarlet course
Poured down the steep stairwell, with the cry from above,
“Dagoth Thras is besting our army one by one!”
Rangidil called his army back, every Ordinator and
Buoyant Armiger, and he himself ascended the stairs,
Passing the bloody remains of the best warriors
Of Morrowind
To the tower room of Abernanit.
Like a raven of death on its aerie was Dagoth Thras
Holding bloody shield and bloody blade at the tower room door.
Every thrust of Rangidil's spear was blocked with ease;
Every slash of Rangidil's blade was deflected away;
Every blow of Rangidil's mace was met by the shield;
Every quick arrow shot could find no purchase
For the Monster's greatest power was in his dread blessing
That no weapon from no warrior found in all
Of Morrowind
Could pass the shield of Abernanit.
As hour passed hour, Rangidil came to understand
How his greatest warriors met their end with Dagoth Thras.
For he could exhaust them by blocking their attacks
And then, thus weakened, they were simply cut down.
The villain was patient and skilled with the shield
And Rangidil felt even his own mighty arms growing numb
While Dagoth Thras anticipated and blocked each cut
And Rangidil feared that without the blessing of the Divine Three
Of Morrowind
He'd die in the tower of Abernanit.
But he still poured down blows as he yelled,
“Foe! I am Rangidil, a prince of the True Temple,
And I've fought in many a battle, and many a warrior
Has tried to stop my blade and has failed.
Very few can anticipate which blow I'm planning,
And fewer, knowing that, know how to arrest the design,
Or have the the strength to absord all of my strikes.
There is no greater master of shield blocking in all
Of Morrowind
Than here in the castle Abernanit.
My foe, dark lord Dagoth Thras, before you slay me,
I beg you, tell me how you know how to block.”
Wickedly proud, Dagoth Thras heard Rangidil's plea,
And decided that before he gutted the Temple champion,
He would deign to give him some knowledge for the afterlife,
How his instinct and reflexes worked, and as he started
To explain, he realized that he did not how he did it,
And watched, puzzled, as Rangidil delivered what the tales
Of Morrowind
Called “The death blow of Abernanit.”
A poem by me
I watch. I wonder. I build. I tear down.
Am I a god? A surely as any are.
Gods have forever to measure their words. Mortals only moments to hear them.
Is the Lord Vivec a god? As surely as I am.
Vivec is a poet. Trust not the words of a poet, as he is born to seduce. Yet for poetry to sieze the heart, it must ring with the chimes of truth.
Is the Lady Almalexia a god? As surely as is Lord Vivec.
Almalexia is a warrior. Beware the warrior, as her steel may not distinguish friend from foe. But in a true hand, a sharp blade may carve history.
Again you ask, am I a god?
I am Sotha Sil. I am the Mage. I am the Clockmaker.
You ask where my Clockwork City is? Some say in the swamps of Black Marsh. Others claim it is deep in the ground beneath Ebonheart. I have even heard it told that my city is contained within a jar on the Lady Almalexia's mantle. These are all true, and false. My city is where I live, and I live in my city. Its location is unimportant, as I am its only citizen.
The Dwemer were the Dwemer. The Chimer were the Chimer. Now the Dwemer are gone and the Chimer are changed. Azura's words weigh heavy, but we have discussed the words of gods already, have we not?
I am Sotha Sil.
I watch. I wonder. I build. I tear down.