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We Are Legion
We are Legion.
Encompassed amongst the redundant cycle of primordial percussion, dating an epoch where Adam partook from the tree of life. First sin to the last, front to back, right to left. Yes, all that. Measure by an assiduous bond convexity and money hungry charlatans. I'm one of many, a single number in a vast singularity with each of us vibrating at a frequency of our own. Holding up like a pillar with an entablature, never shaking, never breaking.
We are Legion, a battalion of poets who seek out the inscription hidden within the palms of the dragon's grip. We are a regiment raining down a brigade of poems to lower the clouds into a fog, manipulating its formulation to accumulate lenticular lenticularis. Advent division egress out its electoral credo creed that's ensuing the pursuing hand, guiding the wand in the form of a pen.
Nowadays love has lost its meaning, and I lost the feeling for the word. Excrete but discreetly, in the words of Edgar Allan Poe himself, he subjected a sentence that sent a poetic schism in my synapse I find utterly remarkable.
It reads: "๐๐ฌ๐ฒ ๐ฅ๐๐ณ๐ข ๐ ๐ฌ๐ซ๐ฎ๐ฒ๐ข๐ฏ๐ข๐ก, ๐๐ซ๐ก โ ๐ถ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฉ๐ก. ๐๐ข๐ฑ, ๐ฅ๐ข๐ซ๐ ๐ข๐ฃ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ด๐๐ฏ๐ก ๐๐ฏ๐ฑ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ฌ๐ฒ ๐๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฌ ๐ก๐ข๐๐กโ๐ก๐ข๐๐ก ๐ฑ๐ฌ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ข ๐ด๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ฉ๐ก, ๐ฑ๐ฌ ๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ณ๐ข๐ซ ๐๐ซ๐ก ๐ฅ๐ฌ๐ญ๐ข! โ๐ซ ๐ช๐ข ๐ก๐ฆ๐ก๐ฐ๐ฑ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ฌ๐ฒ ๐ข๐ต๐ฆ๐ฐ๐ฑโ๐๐ซ๐ก, ๐ฆ๐ซ ๐ช๐ถ ๐ก๐ข๐๐ฑ๐ฅ, ๐ฐ๐ข๐ข ๐๐ถ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฐ ๐ฆ๐ช๐๐ค๐ข, ๐ด๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ ๐ฅ ๐ฆ๐ฐ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ซ๐ข ๐ฌ๐ด๐ซ, ๐ฅ๐ฌ๐ด ๐ฒ๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฉ๐ถ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ฌ๐ฒ ๐ฅ๐๐ฐ๐ฑ ๐ช๐ฒ๐ฏ๐ก๐ข๐ฏ๐ข๐ก ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ถ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฉ๐ฃ." How poetically driven one can be, this is what poetry can be. In the midsts of urgency he plunged himself upon his own sword, hence its teleological simplification of suicide.
Vacillated composition and perspectives so perfectly crafted, it makes you wonder how amazing it can be. God, direct our life through a light like the moon does to our sight in the middle of the night. I must train my mind to know; rejection is God's protection, and protection is a blessing. A blessing is a lesson in disguise. I apologize for my tarry, I went off track and made my own, such as any poet who loves to write. Thereunto I must exclaim that the dark is afraid of you too. A spark of light and it's gone. So do yourself a favor, and LUSTER.
Again I say, I'm one of many. A hooded masked figure in the crowd of thousands wearing raiments like mine alike. Raising our fist high and tight and a pen like mine to write via means of elucidation on the mic.
I say again, we are Legion.
ยฉ All Rights Reserved
Encompassed amongst the redundant cycle of primordial percussion, dating an epoch where Adam partook from the tree of life. First sin to the last, front to back, right to left. Yes, all that. Measure by an assiduous bond convexity and money hungry charlatans. I'm one of many, a single number in a vast singularity with each of us vibrating at a frequency of our own. Holding up like a pillar with an entablature, never shaking, never breaking.
We are Legion, a battalion of poets who seek out the inscription hidden within the palms of the dragon's grip. We are a regiment raining down a brigade of poems to lower the clouds into a fog, manipulating its formulation to accumulate lenticular lenticularis. Advent division egress out its electoral credo creed that's ensuing the pursuing hand, guiding the wand in the form of a pen.
Nowadays love has lost its meaning, and I lost the feeling for the word. Excrete but discreetly, in the words of Edgar Allan Poe himself, he subjected a sentence that sent a poetic schism in my synapse I find utterly remarkable.
It reads: "๐๐ฌ๐ฒ ๐ฅ๐๐ณ๐ข ๐ ๐ฌ๐ซ๐ฎ๐ฒ๐ข๐ฏ๐ข๐ก, ๐๐ซ๐ก โ ๐ถ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฉ๐ก. ๐๐ข๐ฑ, ๐ฅ๐ข๐ซ๐ ๐ข๐ฃ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ด๐๐ฏ๐ก ๐๐ฏ๐ฑ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ฌ๐ฒ ๐๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฌ ๐ก๐ข๐๐กโ๐ก๐ข๐๐ก ๐ฑ๐ฌ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ข ๐ด๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ฉ๐ก, ๐ฑ๐ฌ ๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ณ๐ข๐ซ ๐๐ซ๐ก ๐ฅ๐ฌ๐ญ๐ข! โ๐ซ ๐ช๐ข ๐ก๐ฆ๐ก๐ฐ๐ฑ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ฌ๐ฒ ๐ข๐ต๐ฆ๐ฐ๐ฑโ๐๐ซ๐ก, ๐ฆ๐ซ ๐ช๐ถ ๐ก๐ข๐๐ฑ๐ฅ, ๐ฐ๐ข๐ข ๐๐ถ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฐ ๐ฆ๐ช๐๐ค๐ข, ๐ด๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ ๐ฅ ๐ฆ๐ฐ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ซ๐ข ๐ฌ๐ด๐ซ, ๐ฅ๐ฌ๐ด ๐ฒ๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฉ๐ถ ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ฌ๐ฒ ๐ฅ๐๐ฐ๐ฑ ๐ช๐ฒ๐ฏ๐ก๐ข๐ฏ๐ข๐ก ๐ฑ๐ฅ๐ถ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฉ๐ฃ." How poetically driven one can be, this is what poetry can be. In the midsts of urgency he plunged himself upon his own sword, hence its teleological simplification of suicide.
Vacillated composition and perspectives so perfectly crafted, it makes you wonder how amazing it can be. God, direct our life through a light like the moon does to our sight in the middle of the night. I must train my mind to know; rejection is God's protection, and protection is a blessing. A blessing is a lesson in disguise. I apologize for my tarry, I went off track and made my own, such as any poet who loves to write. Thereunto I must exclaim that the dark is afraid of you too. A spark of light and it's gone. So do yourself a favor, and LUSTER.
Again I say, I'm one of many. A hooded masked figure in the crowd of thousands wearing raiments like mine alike. Raising our fist high and tight and a pen like mine to write via means of elucidation on the mic.
I say again, we are Legion.
ยฉ All Rights Reserved
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