Ramblings Devoid of Meaning


#1

Disregard tales that you despise, of which the guise unnerves you and disturbs you
Close your eyes

A silly man sits
Atop a perch so powerful and large and impenetrable
A bag of wits
Truly terrible

And thinks to himself
Those below
They cannot know
For on his shelf

A tome so great and old and evil
Disturbing to read and unnerving to need
Heed it he will

And a meter or so above the ground it’s told
The tome it sits, squarely and fairly
And rests
And waits

A congress of sorts, whispered in ports and only in short, chopped breaths
It sweeps the network of news and ends on a noose
If they know, and how should they now,
It ends blatantly at the end of a rope with absolutely no hope
And yet
Further it gets
A breath of news
Information for the whole nation
For all nations of colors and sorts
Towns and forts
They whisper it all
And in awe of what they hear some disappear never to be heard or learned of again
No

From the south to the east and west but the north least
They tell of a man so terrible and great and so full of hate but violently pretty and good
And it’s not understood why a man so grand and full of schemes and dreams so enlightening
Would be hated and hasn’t forfeited his place to assassins and lastly they hope
That none ever face the great and terrible schemer and dreamer and builder
They call him valentine his thoughts so fine and mesmerising and arising from his mind are thoughts pretty enough to blind them all and they call him master
Up north they say regardless of day time or location the whole northern nation knows of him
His great ambitions result in petitions and his wishes are their mandate
Great slabs of fine material, ethereal some might say never to go away and always to stay
They assimilate to create and ultimately negate the efforts of lesser lords who know not of craft so fine and divine
A great city of all who deem Valentine their master, no disaster will come they are sure of it

To the northest north and far above devoid of love
A man too tall and small and frightening and delightful and insightful
A great mind as none shall find far and wide and for now he hides but soon he won’t
And all say don’t be certain of preachers in the south and about for there are stories
Of iron birds whose cries can be heard so loudly and shrouded in pain
With little to gain three men in a boat without any hope set off to see the birds and heed their words
And rebuild themselves
Unfortunate days and rain rained upon and drained them of love
Lo behold the old and rickety craft was given the shaft and crumbled the mast and at last
They tread the waves as life had tread them and then
A soaring demon of tumultuous magnitude and obtuse it was
Sounds of hell in their heads for sure they were dead and it’s said that they are but sometimes afar in the tiniest place with the tiniest spaces they speculate life
And these rumours aren’t rife and their life is worthless and still
Their shrieks to be heard if you sit at the coast of the southernmost nation and in relation to the shrieks of fear you hear at home they utterly drone them out
Three men in a pod labelled and packed and studied with honour muddied
The great judge knows of their nation and secrets the few that they know
And reside and wish to die they do in barrels
Fluid their membrane and pain their bread and tears their wine
They float among the divine in a great line of halls and walls
And sit and wait
It cannot negate
Their fear