[Russell Crowe]

Finally! I didn't have any super creative concepts, so we'll keep it pretty traditional.


Topic: Cycles
Word Limit: 1100 words
Deadline: October 2, 2010


and remember, poetry is never a bad thing

[Allee]

Uhhh, no title. . .and only poetry (or so I say) because it came out that way. . .not sucking up.


Frightened
gasping, struggling for breath
a means to escape the walls tightening round
eyes seek shelter from the harsh light of day
can extinguish it no more

Adored
beaming with giggles so sublime
untouched, innocent, pure and unfettered
the world anew, its sights enchanting
mysteries unceasingly beckon

Smothered
a mutinous grasp for self
the path clear of stifling oppression
envisioning the brightness of possibility
aglow in the splendor of promise

Breathless
a flock of sweet muted sighs
fly together entwined in a complementary embrace
of radiant flesh and exhaustive captivation
alit in passion's blinding flame

Overcome
jubliation over every solitary moment
the unbelievably overwhelming power
of one tiny thing ripe with unending wonder
a beautiful, perfect light

Reminded
what's long since passed
the joyous, painful, regrettable
mourning all that's been missed
flickering noticeably less bright

Withered
thankful for everything fortunate
stronger for that which was not
forgetting more than was meant to be forgotten
perpetually dimming

Slipping
further from what was known
weaker in body,helpless to fate
one last breath to pass from within
as the light gently fades

[Plazmataz]

Red Nova Cataclysm


The three corners of my world have begun to curl as of late.

Standing on jagged cliffsides and looking out over the vast universe, I see that other worlds as well are reaching the same red nova cataclysm my own world suffers.

I turn slowly from this vista and look out across the wilds and the rusty plains. I smile to myself. A fell wind blows across the land, and although I know that this chill breath is the very reason my world is dying, I must cede that the coming apocalypse is strikingly beautiful.

The world gently breaks out of orbit and begins to drift on the tumultuous ether. I close my eyes, bury my hands in my pockets, and resign myself to at least try to derive a little enjoyment from the end of all things. And the world falls…

And falls…

But this holocaust is only temporary. I know the world will be born again, as will the other tragedies I see falling around me.

Soon the fiery red horror will give way to serene white, and my red nova cataclysm will be green again next spring.

[Apocalypse]

Prompt: Cycles


Title: Reincarnation
Word Count: 390


The greatest victory is to reoccur. Birth comes but once, as does death, but life may come many times. To reoccur is to achieve immortality, to become history and myth and legend and to become so engrained in the universe that the seed of the thing itself is irrelevant. Reality and corporeal form mean nothing to the reincarnated. Existence to them is the pitch-black of the eyelid as the gods blink, that brief moment of blindness in bliss. They are ironically less while existing than they are when they're gone, like music, not defined by the notes but rather by the silence between.

In the colorful nebulae metal leviathans prey upon one another, devouring iron flesh and ripping each other until not even the bones are left. Their claws puncture the void and buffet the enemy with a billowing red cloud of flame, flowering outwards as a thousand lesser beings are incinerated.

Two lovers lay together on the hill, the scarlet sun dipping below the horizon. They are cradled together, interlaced like the petals of a flower.

The decrepit miser dies in the hospital with no one present, dark blood oozing through the tubes that create a tangled bramble beside his bed. Soon the specter will come, eyes glowing with a sanguine color and the promise of hell or oblivion, and will stretch out the gaunt hand that had touched so many great men and so many more metaphorical insects, and that hand will be marred by vines and gnarled with thorns.

As the artist perfects her painting she blots the blackened canvas with stark crimson brushstrokes and fidgets nervously with the ruby on her thin ring. The scene must not simply depict, she tells herself. It must have meaning.

The artist's fear is the plight of the symbol. Without purpose there can be no reincarnation, and without meaning there can be no beauty, and without truth there can be nothing. Here overlooking everything I can see the meaning, the purpose, the beauty, the truth. Here as I gaze down at not just the universe but the whole of existence, I see the distant stars and the things that language has no name for yet.

In the fiery calamity that is life and death and everything in between and tangiental and extraneous, I see the red shape of the rose.

This post has been edited by Apocalypse: 28 September 2010 - 07:49 PM

[ensign edwards]

The Cycle

By Tyler Edwards.

The cycle is beautiful. The cycle is deadly. The cycle is boundless, and it touches all things. The cycle is vast beyond mortal comprehension. The cycle is unending.

The cycle cultivates. The cycle nourishes. The cycle destroys. The cycle corrupts. The cycle evolves. The cycle changes. But always, the cycle endures.

Some venerate the cycle. Some fight it like an enemy. The cycle can be damaged, twisted, battered, beaten, aided, or restored, but none of that will make a difference in the long run. The cycle is survival, and it is eternal.

The cycle is everything.