To read is to commune with nature, A very personal ritual, Authors breath life on to these fragments of lumber, Rejuvenation via ink and quill, Your eyes scan across the veins of oak, Hallucinating as you go line by line, Seeing stars and lands never formed, A veritable opera of sundry speakers, Worlds of every ilk imaginable, Fashioned by a writers madness, Literary paths left for you on parchment, The skin of the forest, Books are the trees talking to us, Mother Natures voice, Translated by shamans of the written word.
The king left on a grand crusade, A campaign ‘gainst that dragon or this demon, I’m his regent, His steward, I was to warm this volcanic throne, Until his triumphant return,
Yet the kingdom rots without him, As if its lifeblood has been drained, The peasants grow skeletal and despondent, The very earthen foundations of our nation crumble, Our royal academia lectures only madness now, Our lone remaining knight now rides a pale horse,
Look yonder to the fields under my reign, And see that they are barren, As if a royal magic is dispelled, This charge seems a curse, He bade me this unwanted duty, The crown mocks me from its waiting pedestal.
How are you all getting on? Not frozen yet then I hope! It’s been a bit of a chilly one this week hasn’t it? At least it has been here on this island. It’s starting to feel a bit more like Christmas. So that’ll be feeling perpetually cold and having no cash whatsoever. There are certainly enough bright coloured lights everywhere! Happy holidays and such! I feel like my cynicism seems to be flowing at full power right now so I’ll apologise on that point. I’m loving life I swear! Haha!
So, speaking of loving life, who wants to listen to some music? Did anybody see the clue to todays musical theme? I thought it was a pretty good one, if I do say so myself.
Well, the musical theme for today is fantasy! Ahh of course! The realm of elves and orcs and short people with hairy feet. It’s one of my favourite genres in almost all mediums, behind horror of course. I’ve been fascinated with fantasy since my early years. Reading ‘The Hobbit’ and ‘The Sword of Shannara’ books back in the day definitely had an impact my interests going forward. I’ve written many poems about several facets of fantasy. From magic to mythical creatures, from wizards to worlds that don’t exist. It’s the quintessential essence of escapism, in much the same way as science fiction can be. I just think I’d rather be able to wield magic than fly a spaceship. How about you guys? Also, want to hear some music? I knew you would!
Join me as we delve into the musical minds of mythic artists the world over!
Did any of these songs whisk you away to another world unlike our own? I hope they cast a spell on you! I hope you enjoy each of these artists and check out their other music as well! They all deserve the attention and I’m sure you’ll enjoy them as well!
Speaking of enjoying stuff, let’s have some social media links. The asylum has a page over on Facebook, an account on Instagram and a page over on Twitter as well! Consider following me over on those pages too for poem clues ahead of time and other nonsense! Also, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page too! Thanks for everything!
You see this creature atop my shoulder? This fiend of mana, This decrepit homunculus, This breathing effigy of a devil, Neither feminine nor masculine, Something akin to an insect blended with a raven,
Be not afraid, For it is beholden to me, It is my familiar, My arcane assistant, Summoned to support occult exertions, Clutching my nape with bestial claws,
Its feral eyes help seeing mystical patterns, Its hand able to weave magicks beyond mortal ken, As abominable as this thing appears, It was created to serve, To aid, A sorcerers best ally.
I once spent an evening with an angel, And heavenly she was, Aside from some goetic tattoos here and about, But something transpired, A force took hold of her,
The conversation turned increasingly esoteric, Her words became sulphuric heat, Forked tongues in each breath, Onyx veils covered her eyes, Stifling any humanity,
Her face became a mask, Contorted and almost pliable, An unknown presence lay behind it, A baneful weight, A malevolence,
The air felt heavy in her presence, Like breathing in spiteful ash, I asked her what she was, She grinned, And those were no longer human fangs.
I once met a being of glamour, Fresh from the shores of Arcadia, A sylvan lady, Slender and refined in stature, Cloaked in every form of botany, Beautiful yet somewhat off, Verging upon androgyny,
Her hair was overgrown ivy, And her eyes were frosted alabaster, Her gaze felt ever like barely stifled fury, A mother bears spirit married to the fae, Natures proud hostility held fast in her voice, The elements danced like sprites upon her silver tongue, And from that tongue came a harsh attitude,
To her kind, The human world was profane, An aberration, We are pollution given a body, The antithesis of her creed, It was difficult to argue, So I gave myself to the green.
I heard tell of a witch, A maiden in this harvest season, A lady in an obsidian regalia, Where she walks the flock congregates, A winged host of subjects, Upon her word do they fly, She walks paths lost to man, She is the mother of ravens, She is never alone, She is nature, She is death, She carries the murder in her soul,
The mists of the village welcomed a new visitor, A monk of the road, Tsugaru shamisen in hand, Ragged in his very being, Skeletal and mute, A man whose eyes had never seen,
He played for rice and water, His instrument his only possession, Aside from the soiled cloth on his back, The shamisen continues its mournful twangs, Each pluck unleashing a tale of spirits, Mystifying the villagers in its sad tones,
The old monk persisted, With his music magic seemed real again, Not a single eye remained dry, Even the skies above acknowledged his rueful tune, Falling in dismal sheets, The village walked beside spirits once more,
Upon the sea we rest, Callused hands upon nets and scales, The winds rise in warning, Waves lashing at our hull, Begging us to flee to shore, The storms know what approaches, The monster the waters try to hide, Teeth like tantos approach, Ichthyology turned to nightmarish design,
The shadow cutting betwixt waves, This is no shark, No animal of biological leaning, But a yokai, A dread spirit of myth, Isonade, A barbed tail like a typhoon, Ready to impale fleeting lives up on deck, It could be our briny and thrashing end.
The kitchen is a workshop of a different kind, With its own arsenal of craftsmen’s tools, Knife and stove, Whisk and cutting board, It’s a form of alchemy, Culinary magic, If cast by a maestro, An ambrosia made at home, Via a process in artful motion, The scents play a symphony in the air, Following a conductor of a culinary edge, From the humble ingredients, Bland and squatting in the pantry, To dishes worthy of an empress, Regal and flawless in execution, Euphoria for ones tongue.
WorldofHarley 