The Grizzletoe’s Gruff

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There once was an awkward creature called The Grizzletoe, indeed–

and his reclusiveness lives alive and well in you, them, and me-

It towers and soars to about 8 or so feet tall.

It does nothing all day, but paint, shape, and make dolls–

The Grizzletoe is covered in full-grown fiend WOOL!

Has antlers on its head, and-

impatiently SNORTS like a bull!

Has two hind legs that it walks upright with.

A scrunching brow that flexes all the time–

and teeth that grind.

And The Grizzletoe is curious, like the humans walking around–

it lives in the same forest that it flees to–

every time mankind makes a sound.

The Grizzletoe’s large stretched and warped face, twists and gnashes in rage–

every time no humans pay attention.

To the delicate dolls he sculpts and makes-

Copyrightcopyright September 5, 2018

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Old Man Winter’s Shadow~Excert from my story

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And indeed. Here travels the eager steps of the knight and the huntsman.

Came to reclaim; the princess from the shadowlands. The despair hangs like a ceiling over the clouds. The swinging voice of music flees the merry dance of the bats regain-

My laugher is the music that giggles the shattering Earth. The sound of freedom is but a faint memory away, and the holds have scrounged for the ice’s tear of day.

I will summon a snowy maniacal army. The army is coated in glass from the forming of jaggered jaws…

Their hands are but to snatch.

Many heroes have frolicked freely, hoping to conquer the endless mountain and their hills. And all have fallen in the frost.

In where the frozen overscore be shapened like the overseer. Like the boss-

I will use my nose hairs to ensnare the freely beckoning, my arms will fall the trees to spilt the snowy tunnels.

My chin will scope up the masses as I lean my head back to smile at the winter’s fury.

My eye’s lashes will spear through the champions I wink at, my fidgeting lids will tremor the frozen Earth.

My head hairs, every strand will be the watch towers that the fair maiden weeps from.

Her eyes will melt the snow with the tears.

And maybe…If so be the fate, and the will combined–

My madness will subside–

and I will decide-

to steer a path to my lair for you to find…

Copyrightcopyright August 30, 2018

The Pale Wearbear

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I’ve lived many ways, worn many deeds;

the skin I wore, turned a bear, then ashunder;

the very thought of the moon, I go a’shudder-

the maidens shut the shutters-

the fangs protrude, until another–

the bear Greenland fights, she rests uneasidly;

the frost that shortens the grass, until the goosebumps dance;

the wolf isn’t the only creature howling under the moon;

the bear flew over the ocean, in the midst of the summer-turning’s gloom14336449-1534463234

When its calm inside, a storm rages the surface…

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The storm outside. Its scary isn’t it?

Almost like fate. Sometimes fate can be a scary maiden.

Sometimes the only thing a child needs to be fearless, is destiny’s hand.

But destiny is formless, until seen. And sometimes we don’t see it, until we see it in another’s eyes.

The dying faint glow of logic, starts with the logic of understanding.

Sometimes not understanding, however, helps the drifter understand

even greater.

 

-Gregory Thomas

Hello on War and Poetry

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Hello. Gregory Thomas here, friends.

Is not the art of war, just Ballads for humans?

Was not the sound of listening alone the very concept of The Cold Wars?

Was not antebellum’s existence started on behalf of our mind and eyes?

Does not all of mankind wait on mankind?

Does it really suprise you that your eyes see what is around them?

Your mind is the most personal think you can have, and only your mind knows what your mind is thinking.

Your soul is caged by your own ribcage. Your blood is just drool, used for your body’s elixar.

Your eyelashes are just thorns, your chin is your body’s mountains.

But I ramble. What matters is that you hear the music through my words.

The words are the music, the mind is the canvas, your eyes are the window, and your voice can shatter all three of these things.

 

-From your friend, Gregory Thomas.

Waging Wendigo Wars

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It lifts up from the wind, and the wind;

carries the terror-

you, alongside the radicalization of the air,

as you are lifted up knee-deep into despair-

from out of the reckoning of your flesh removed-

are the teeth of the gnashing blades; bone, shards and razors-

because the sound of war and flesh feed off of the death-

ashes to ashes and cinders-

comrades afraid of going mad, go mad first-

The guns athirst are the warbirds afraid of lifting from out of wind burst-

the sound of wailing! And it is indeed the fear of you being intertwined-

afraid of devouring your own, in the name of your misunderstood crimes-

the wings beat justice, but the sound of vengeance is a game fought,

worst, within your own mind!

Poem meaning: Talks about war, and the fear of becoming

shell-shocked

 

Copyrightcopyright April 30, 2018

Harkoning

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The art of love-

beckoning.

The froward wind, cold and deathening.

Heartless beats. I hear everyone.

Unknown stupor of the life and mares are one.

My eardrums are too keen on sound-

I hear more noise silent, then when I am found…

 

Copyrightcopyright April 6, 2018