

In Crones of ThreeHollow and empty the halls did play, an orchestra of silence undeterred. For twas the lack of visitors to the Manor that let sound go unheard. And bellow did the chamber pots and echo did the haunted Tins For naught but one could hear their cries, their lies, their twisted, insisted demonic sins And where silence grows louder, deep under the households chill Worked a gentlemen of thought divided, provided that his mind still stood stillIn Crones of Three
Low did rush a summoned cough from the lungs of Mister Holmes His hands were drenched with motor oil, his eyes a bloodshot sanguine glow But these subtle


The Lady GrayLittle seem to speak of her. Her existence a fictitious fluctuation of sharpened tongue and clamped lip. But open ears do probe of her whereabouts, her place amongst realities chambers. Few are rewarded with little more than dismissive single minded views upon the matter of Lady Gray and her looming presence, born of folk lore and tales uttered beneath ones breath.The Lady Gray
I often rent my dreams to facilitate her. I wade through pools of tears soon dust as Lady Gray sits listless and foreboding upon the back of a ill gotten beast. Its mangy hide a blanket for her ladyships comfort. I approach her but never the beast. Its purpose and rela


The Red MonolithInto the windows of my chamber pours its hellish glow. The bright crimson river of spectral abnormalities colliding with the particles of human comprehension. An aura I am forced to endure, my mightiest attempts to ignore its presence thwarted. I pit my psyche against it as I gaze out my northern bound window. It is truly that of my nightmares. For years now it has beckoned me, called me to 'The Vesture'. A place known only by few but inflicted upon many.The Red Monolith
It must of grown tired of waiting, simply chosen to pursue me instead...
I can not take this much longer. Why won't it just take me!? Why was it not satisfied with


Lester Abacrombie - Part 1Drenched in sweet Lester Abacrombie, another turd in the Vegas bowl woke from the same bizarre dream that had haunted him for years now. His hands brushed his desk, knocking pens and papers onto the plastic sheeted floor. Lester lent back on his chair and gazed into the ceiling of his apartment. As if an internal projector had been switched on within him, Lester saw his life on that ceiling. Lester saw himself watching himself. A paradoxic state of mind. Lost within the enigmatic crevice of his putrid psyche. His fingers rubbed his eyes, sleep crust sticking to his nails. Lester slowly got to a standing position. His head resting on his shoulLester Abacrombie - Part 1
Devious Comments
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"bad art is more tragically beautiful than good art 'cause it documents human failure."
hooray for nick cave!
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Your have been featured in this months Scribes Spotlight!
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Even Lost Kitten's are found someday...
My Lit: *SalleyAshley & Fotos: *LensKitten
Project: Scribes Spotlight help dA writers shine!
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everybodys got problems, and personally, I dont care!
'he who makes a beast of himself, rids himself of the pain of being a man.' dr. johnson
by day we'll live in a dream....
DON'T TOUCH ME!!!
*TheWritersMeow
Why don't you join the poetry contest from [link] ?
It's free and every nitwit such as myself who enters gets a small gift
but someone like you might win one of their $10 000 or $100 000 prizes.
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