Luminick

What is something simple, one might ask the term is used for many things, from doing tasks, to anything else. But what is something simple? Does it crawl up one's bed, like the wind does to one at night, or is it life at one is wed. Is simple like fire, caring not for anything else, making everything a lier, as it throws shadows everywhere. Nobody can truely say what is simple, but one thing is for sure, one can not be so pure, as to tell another of something simple.

In the bright afternoon's bright, When the sun is high in the air, something stands dull against the light, something not many can bare. An angel, saddened by her friend, entrapped in a single ring, wanting a long awaited bend, for which the end of the spell shall bring. But distasteful to the two standing below, the light surrounded them forever more, for all of time to show, and all time to bore. She is the angel, with the girl in the single ring. She is the girl, entrapped in a circle.

Aya, forsaken one's child, hiding in the ever darkening night, her hair flying away with no wind, and shimmering in the air without light. Aya, Goddess and Queen of Kitsunes, flinging her many soft colored tails, and listening with ears like no other, to a stranger's exciting tales. Aya, beautiful and strangly wild, her thoughts cheerful and loving, her smile playing at the edge of words, and her sweet voice delightfully lulling. Aya, creature nobody's ownership could assume, her eyes chilled with long days, their pupil's sharp and edged, so as to see things in seperated ways. Aya, loved and on to never be, forgotten by tho

Darkness shrouds as the clouds boil over, thier fluffyness giving way death, thier light creating darkness. The walls closed in around me, my thoughts doing everything against me, in my single hour of need. My dreams become shrouded, thier pressence making me fear evermore, the pressence of those outside, that I can not see. My writting, seemingly light, as it used to be, has now darkened around me. So this is what lonelyness feels like, so this is what bein without anything in life feels like, so this is what death is.

One's own search, doesn't turn down, one who's thoughts, wouldn't put anybody into frown. The Peanut-Butter Tree! Twisting, winding the branches go, the butter shoved from weird glands, to be collected by little elves, with all thought and no demands. The Peanut-Butter Tree! Jars filled with this magical stuff, unquestioned by those who eat it, as they spread it over bread, as if it and jelly actually fit. The Peanut-Butter Tree! So remember when, you eat your bread, of the plant planted next to the pit of used nutshells, of the thing easiest to spread. the Peanut-Butter Tree!

Snow, the most beautiful of the elements, it's ghostly glow even making night seem like morning, it's light substance floating diligently, down the wind beaten paths of the sky. Winter's heaven, touching all without mercy, the cold without heat, it's length shorter than those of summer's. Plains, mountains, rivers, and homes, all trapped within the snow's mysterious works, it's happyness causing glum to those not within it's ranks, surrounding us with wants, and needs for which we cann't survive.

Throughout life, we're taught many things. Some good, some bad, but we as humans are left to decide, upon which measure is right and wrong. But no more should we trust ourselves, for our minds as a whole, are slowly corroding away, nothing remains but the horrible. And from this hatred, only death seems eminent. Yet life strives outside our culture. Where life lives, there is a single light, with which all the hatred in the world can not extinguish. Hope

A song drifting, it's creeping sound heard, heard through open doors. It weaves it's way back and forth, streaming and pounding, pounding against the floors. Banging, the screen door sings, the wind screaming, screaming against the noose. In the yard, flapping wings are heard, heard is the noise of an angry goose. The body's stench spreads, being smelled loud and clear, clear and calling to the carion birds. So goes the song of death, the one song that is always heard, heard by all but sung by no words.

Happiness used to be a single word, one from which everybody could understand. Where children could play, teens flirted, and parents sat back and prayed for it never to stop. However, today's culture has tarnished the word, happyness has changed definitions. Children no longer play in the streets, but are wary constantly of those, trying to take them away. Teens no longer flirt, as they did once, no preferring dark corners to bright ones, using prostitution instead of real love. Parents don't seem to want to watch, their minds instead caught, trapped by television and computers. But every once in a while, we all look to each

In each life was a separate, living thread in space, then our lives would pull together, forming an enormous blanket, an enormous quilt, a tapestry of life and fate. The web would spin itself, its long strands entwining with others, making pictures of entire lifetimes. It would show couples, singles, siblings, parents, teachers, peers, and all in between. Within it, your fate and mine are tangled, our strands showing us the way in life, and as we travel this path our strands grow longer, and the pictures of our life are shown. We're happy, having the best time of our lives, the only loosening of our threads being small, show