IceNSpiceLiterature

In the land without a setting sun, Ageless rainbows and tall tales, Under the spotless cloud of ignorance There is a place where reason fails. In its emarald valleys and violet hills Flocked a thousand flawless souls Away from a lifetime of honest slanders, Prevailed nature's fairest foals. A little boy strode into the woods And lay beneath the maple tree, Woken up by a passing pheasant He heard the rumbling sea. Unknown to where his homeward path lay, Deafened by the vigorous din, The child followed the raucous flay, With unexplained chagrin. As the path cleared into the cay Where the shore embraced the spray, He looked upo

The marvels that mankind creates with bread, Evinces the genius of the mortal mind, When fair cheese, lush lettuce and bacon wed, Malices take flight, finesse is defined, So as you take another bite of red and white, Whether life's all square or a sour soddin bitch, Reassure yourself, for it'll be alright,   As long as this isn't the world's last sandwich.

Society is like a penitentiary, Of regressive and parochial minds, Cuffing us to an era of darkness, In the blessed name of moral binds, But in the light of self renaissance, When you set your soul bird free, You'll see that there's no salvation, Walking beneath the banyan tree. So stand by your canons, In Stuttgart or Stalingrad, For how can anybody ever know, What is good and what is bad? As you cede every common ethos, You'll realize what society is, Such a picture perfect paradise, Seen through a blind man's eyes.

A wink, a blink, the curtains fall, A wink, a blink, a new day dawns, Could the tenebrous night perish, In but a ephemeral ingot of eternity? The hours elapse near fleeting seconds, Squandering our paltry grains of sand, Leeching away all of our yesterdays, Concocting our misty tomorrows anew, The nightly Nesasio has left her perch, Perhaps she'll return fore twilight, The church bells chime to welcome morn, How many moments have I left behind? They are but naive nescient beasts, Who care not for those hours past, Spent behind but two padlocked eyes, And parallel lives which never last, But what if this is but a nightmare, A

Shall I compare thee to a winter's night? Thou art more reticent and rimy still, Days cease anon with thous't departing light, As dusk marks yer grave with thy season's chill, Sometimes tis snow that ebbs from the dark sky, Sometimes gelid winds the heavens do send, Yet thous't verdict concluded you and I, T'was not winter's to kill, nor death's to end, By virtue of heartache, thine mind hath learned, What ample summer days could never teach, Art more lasting things in life to be yearned, Nay blissful love, thous't too fruitless a reach, Come sunshine and spring, oh winter alas! For thou too, my beloved, shall't come to pass.

In these lives of parodies, In these times of bitter dreams, We speak in elegies As the churchyard resonates with peace. In the womb of the autumn breeze There lie the things we never say, Like once proud amber leaves Which fly away, oh so far away. Of thoughts too queer to speak And words suppressed that ceased to be And the love that made us bleed, T'was but too frail to be freed. In our cowardice and pride Those pretences of our own device, We hurt and made them cry And found no need to apologize. All the times that we stood still As tyrants drew blood from every kill And this world never made any sense Oh but we stood i

It's that feeling at the end of the day. That one that makes you want to give  up. The one that makes every limb tremble from exhaustion. The feeling of wanting to shut yourself away from the world. It's that feeling where you think no one likes you. That one that fills you with grief every time you look in the mirror. The one that makes you you want to cry. The feeling of not being worth anyone's attention. It's that feeling of being ugly. That feeling that causes all of  your uncertainty. The one that makes every attempt to feel pretty useless. The feeling of wanting to be loved. It's that feeling of accomplishment. That one th

"If anything could have discouraged her, the state of France in 1429 should have." The Hundred Years' War had begun in 1337 as a succession dispute over the French throne with intermittent periods of relative peace. Nearly all the fighting had taken place in France, and the English army's use of chevauchée tactics (similar to scorched earth strategies) had devastated the economy. The French population had not recovered from the Black Death of the previous century and its merchants were isolated from foreign markets. At the outset of Jeanne d'Arc's appearance, the English had nearly achieved their goal of a dual monarchy under English con

In every grain of billowed sand, In every drop of aurora dew, In every flake of withered flint And every leaf of an aging Yew, In a solitary nook that lies long forgotten Or a deserted niche, so vacouous and void, She awaits with forbearance rivaling those Who have looked into the Gorgon's oculi, Lighter than a feather, Oh lighter than a zephyr, Yet no baton, bullet or blade Can ever touch her, When we are callously abdicated And forsaken in the pouring rain   A quiet melifluous voice says "Fret not, for I shall remain", She has no home, no resting abode Nisi jarred hearts and jagged souls, Yet she is not a tram