themissingslate

When will the will be willing The mind, like an arrow, goes forth But strays from its path Only when true will it happen, peerless, the will Being fickle and unpredictable, choosing its own path The path of affectation and the willed path, the duality of man The nature of it All contradictions that define A man of two minds, desire and the desired All things being equal but different: I can breathe, yet I do not. I am existence, yet existence is without me Arrows fly, dulled points stray They do not connect. The great between Oh the will of it all, the one and of the one No two exist, separate but connected vessals I wan

It was a dark evening, the light of a starkly gibbous moon shone ominously onto a lone Arkham building. A place rooted firmly into one of the more undesirable districts of that cursed city. The light trickled through into its Georgian interior, as if afraid of the dancing shadows it threw forward like devilish spectres. The pointed ears and peaked form of something alien to the world were cast darkly onto Howard Phillip Lovecraft by the softly tortured light. He sat reading the "The Cask of Amontillado", muttering to himself, strange musings punctuated by the curling of his lips. The cat's shadow disappeared and the scene seemed twisted for a

Poets are constantly crippled, creatively. It's the way it works. You write a line and, just now, right now, it seems like it's the best line in the world to date. It's a shiny, beautiful line, a thought, an image so remarkably profound that you are in awe of yourself, or (if you are a seasoned poet) in awe of that angelic being which sits on high in your mind and occasionally drops little scraps of poetic manna into your head. Now, you only need to write a poem around it. And fail. Because the poem takes over, sprouts a million legs and scurries in directions you had no real intention of it going – and now the Wondrous Line of Glory a