{ Slay —— Avin
The name of this poem is "Failures to Comply" it has a PG-13 rating. The poem is also not dedicated to anyone, and criticism is allowed.
22:59, February 15, 2015 (UTC)
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No-one is allowed to copy from this, you may use the ideas that you may receive from reading this. If you wish to use part of this poem in a story or for anything else on the wiki, politely ask me before you copy the poem. There are some quotes in this poem, the references have been removed for the sake of the fact that it's poetry, however, upon request I can give you the sources.

When he walks freely, he tells a tale, and when he talks about things that are important, people tend to not garner. Everything he says is sensible, literate, and yet somehow misguided as to what is astute. When he strides about this history, there is something in the air amidst him, that showers ponderous things of seeming eminence. What, oh ever, could it be that he shares? Is it the decaying apple in that of his wormwood eye that he could not perceive? That when he talked, his pallid lips lisped lazily while he laid his cryptic level of understanding of the importance of abundance from the consequence of his capriciously advantageous subterfuges of the myriads of judgement on the outcome of his own life?

What is important? Be it how much he vainly stokes that which he has and cherishes, that he bustle out to the many among him and even a lover? Can he invoke in her a fire when he hath not even a dormant spark, can he see that there is no glimmer in her suspended hearts of inept scrying gazes? What is it is that he looked for in her? He tried so hard to pay for her everything, to make everything seem so right with his money. The vehicle of destruction was the monocle of arbitrary disposition; having too much and not enough to do with it. So there he spent everything that he owned, turned to her expecting her to reimburse him, and was sorely disappointed with what he reaped. He sees no happiness in her suspended hearts; there is no shadow of Isaiah, he sees no willingness to help. And she leaves him, leaves him for another, and he, he was the last to know. How cruel he found it, as he balanced balance after balance, cried cry after cry.

So is the sewing of the man wished to enact his virtueless mountain. He tries as much as he can, and only fails to realize that he will never make it as far as he hopes to attain. How will he realize that his wife won’t want for him that which he can’t attain; she wants what he can. But what will she want for him, after she’s left him since he can no longer supply her with anything that she wants. She tells him that she didn’t ever love him; in due time, he’ll try again. In due time he’ll cry again, he’ll pray again, but what will he get? He will get nothing, “He has not because he asks not,” they tell him. How will they know he’s asked so many times? At a point so soon, he forgets to remember the simply loving condition, motive. How could he forget? He can’t remember what he hasn’t heard, and so he tries again, still she tells him to leave. He spends everything he doesn’t have on her to get her back, and it is null. She walks in and out of his life, taking from him as much as he will give to her, that much is all. So when he cries out at night, his cries fall on an uncaring ear, his heart is shedding a single tear, and the ear turn away in his time of need. So this is how it ends for he? No, he walks into the day after next, despondent and disposed to everyone; how can he love again? There from that Book shows a story of love. How can he listen when he balks a third eye blind, and walks away from everything for his “good”. He will never know, the ashes of the letters: the Red, the Black, and love, together pass away on the furtive winds of change.

Now he entertains another thought, one of giving something of himself, what ever shall the thought be that he gives? He gives so much — so little — and it does null and stakes out too utter nothing, and he shortens half himself to the plate, only in hopes to receive more than the little he has for that which is what he thinks he wants? The preconceived notion, already surfacing as he receives his payment. This much to go there, this much here, that much in this; He plans it out so, tidily. He puts the exhaustive check out to the post, the vehicle of his debt. He sits in that mechanism on Sunday, and it takes him to, in his faulty conscience, just another edifice. In the sanctuary where everything he has lies so precariously in his grey suited deception. It is there, that he hands in another check; just adequate as to not disturb his blundering budget? The pitiful monochrome mechanism takes him, to yet another building, that which he thinks is his home. Wandering about the home, each room tells of its grey dues; each room compels him to covet more, but can he really harbor more in this grey rendition of a Coldharbour? There it is, silence at last in his bed, his mind fallen desolate to its own waste. This time, it is as though everything in the room is dull, and as he sits up, he is not conscious of his physical figure withdrawn on the bed. How so is it that his short wraithlike figure, the murky twilight of his shadowy figure, how is it that it walks through the house? Every step he takes is painful; but he thinks it normal and grows accustomed to the hardship. He stretches out his hand to touch the light switch, yet in the gloom it is gone; he reaches to pull out a chair to sit, yet it is gone with the light switch.

The darkness swoons in a murky glee of the incubus; greedily accepting the machinations of his life into its abandoned abyss. There about the house, his possessions are disappearing, the stanch air inside is growing thicker; his shadow is slowly burning out untraceably into the blighted air. He attempts to cry out, but not a sound utters forth. His essence is slipping away, his essence is burning out, the fire has consumed him and he is no more. A widow of sorts comes to see the house, the smoldering mess that her lover used to call home. She digs through the hoard of ashes for the locked box. Yet, when she finds the box, it is already empty, thieves perused its belongings, and burned their tracks. She tells the children that it will be fine, they’ll make it somehow, but will they really? They won’t, won’t. But there, a voice tells her aching heart, words that would sound so similar to her husband’s cruel misfortune. “God!— I wish I’d thought of bringing my things with me!”. There, he makes it to the faultless transient meeting, the Voice speaks, he put the world on a Dead Throne, he slipped and fell, and didn’t call out, his right to be here, is as much as that which he had in the reality of his life. Nothing, he doesn’t own it, and will forever burn because of it. But what of it? Is that really the concordant fate he met? Oh that which would happen. “When he had received her kiss he became a little more visible”. Yet, only to this end, he became visible to those who had not watched him while he was in his time. He leaves away to take the journey to the burning sands of Hell.

Maybe it was another life that he thought would happen to him, and so he told it as such… He thinks it takes lust for another to be proper in the eyes of the Fountain. It is as so that he talks much but does so little in the essence of his time. He left away his gift; his motives corrupted, exposing rotten waspish lanterns which haze among the air he breath, turning him into the empty filled not. He quickly begins to pine, and just as sap drips below, destroying all that it settles on, so are his capricious mood swings. He takes one after another, hoping to find love in one way; in a way that satisfies the emptiness he feels inside. Is it that he is in love with the feeling of being loved? “How shall we escape if we ignore so great a salvation? …”. Oh instead he looks for a maiden, his intentions hinder his search, keeping him from finding such a being. He can’t realize that he has no confidence in any one of them. Or that they all harmed him in some wrong. None of them were fearful of that which was Right, their beauty fleeting and charms deceiving.

One tries to love him in earnest, but he only cries out to that one when she leaves him because of his lusts… “Please, I never meant to be such a nuisance”. He continues on looking, she comes back to check on him, how deep does the burning hatred of his words ring. “Please—really—don’t bother” (Lewis 108). As she persists in asking, he lies, oh how he lies. “Look! it’s gone to sleep of its own accord. I’m sure it’ll be all right now. Thanks ever so much”. She feels uneasy with this answer, but takes it nonetheless, and allows him to wallow in his home; oh the misery waiting for him. He couldn’t realize; how he couldn’t realize that he simply need search in the right place. It can’t always be showing its face it would seem, and that maybe sometimes it wasn’t what he thought he needed… But in each of these, he found that his emptiness drained as he tried to patch the vessel with one after the other. A singular thought comes to his mind and he entertains it like the edifice of misery he keeps in his temple. “You’d only be a sort of ghost, not a real man as you are now… It may be natural for him, but it isn’t for us”. How he turned away from the natural, the holy sanctity of the selection of another. He wouldn’t get very far like that.

Then, when it seemed to not work, he fell for him, and was trapped in it, even amidst the short brevity of the wrong feeling, it felt so right. It, it seemed like just the way to spend that night. Yet, when he awoke, the sun and moon were bloodshot, and the air, tainted with fire, tasted hot to his soul’s singular carnage. The shed of The Voice, dripped in seismic waves toppling against the falling of the mountains, calling out down to he. Yet, how can he listen when he turns away, he turns to what he believes is his calling. The group that is in him, oh it is they. “They terrify lest they should fear”. He takes the multitudes on a journey, enchanted by his proposed tune; he leads them through valleys, gullies, mountain passes, tunnels, over plains, and under overhangs. Oh his tune, the tune that sells the ringing of hell’s impishly immaculate bells. Oh how it tells of conflagration, fame, fortune, and all that it gives in the pleasure of the moment. All that’s left for them in his tune is the timing of a moment till what? Till, till what? Till he bring them to the very edge; his simple tune proposes a choice; jump or be pushed? Either way, down is up from the past he tells them. Thus is the deceiver of the multitudes, carrying on his tune until his folly is at its greatest. The greatest as which is when he is caught, and forced into his own petulant misery; he himself must make the choice, up is down they tell him… Yet… Where do they take him? They take him to a Gate, to let him speak for a chance of redemption; always like always, he fails to comply, and is thrown over.

If it were his life, and it was he who had known but still continued on… When he talks through the gate of tomorrow; its hinges rust and the cornerstone breaks. The whole wall falls and these on the fence are the first to find the thorns in the rose bushes below; they are the first to find the soft padding of the grass that lie on the seemingly ethereal side that reality truly exists. The wall well on top of him, crushing him, and each stone assuredly bearing the semblance of things he hoped to forget. Oh so heavy are the arcane ordinances; Oh how he thought that the arbitrations he had with the black book internal were finished. Yet here, as it was, he lay, quickly gasping for air, then with that as much as it may, blood hailed from the clouds, and slowly washed away he with all the stones. The stones flourished in vice, from them grew shackles.

And it was so, that he had formerly become entrenched in the engulfment of his chains; the blood grew thicker, thicker, faster as it carried him wayward, deeper as its melancholy objective became his solitary internal dejection, and shallower as he breathed blood. Ah, so it was, the black out that brought him to his consciousness. No, he slowly sank, not able to swim, because he didn’t truly know; something was alive despite drowning… There in the cascading white golds of the seraphim’s robes stood a transparent silhouette, a charismatic ethereal contour of being in what echoed as thunderous as the murderous roar of a mighty waterfall; He resounded like an articulated undeniable influence, and called to he who, unable to stand, lay crushed, chained and seemingly lifeless. He called to he on the transient floor of the meeting, He called to a second chance for he, and he listened to He, and agreed.

Oh so slowly, Oh so quickly was he lifted from that meeting; his shackles, burdens, vices, all removed. How so quickly was he brought back to the wall, friends with those on the fence again. He doesn’t miss He that gave him the the opportunity for sanctity. Then, faced with the decision of it all he chooses…Yet, there, in spite of all, he makes the same choice again, to speak, how real was it all that he simply spit in the face of reality’s greatest victor, Idealism. Oh how it is, he chose to say the things that caused him to remember a quandary that He spoke. “They sink lower—become interested in their own personalities and then in nothing but their own reputations”. Only in that, did he so ideally remember how he had spoken to the He, the being, calloused words shaping the ignorance of naivety. “I don’t think I’m much troubled in that way”. Yet now he does not just simply speak; he screams, his lungs fill with blood, his throat opens, dead words come out. It was though, if after being shown the uttermost, if he had said, “I… Hate… Everything about you! Why? Do I? Love you?” Would he stop to think anymore about the simple reality of his emphatic disregard? “The concentric waves spread out further and further. Who knows where it will end?” That is how he calls out to not realizing, and it decadently snowballs into the darkly lit conflagrations of Hell. There he goes again, and another naive spiteful uttermost is conjured…

So it is, that it goes with that man, whose mind tells him each of these infinitesimal tales, that he should try to place them into the grand scheme of things. Oh that he should try to move through the patterns of his life? That he could even begin to take something that means so much, and make it mean so little with every washed out thought that caresses his mind? The purpose of the mind he thinks, is that it walks about its many choices in its plentiful scope, and that where there is one vulture, there is no great worry; yet when there are many vultures the end is near, is it not?

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