Rebuilding the Mental Patio - A poem of rebirth

I miss it. I wish to sit amid those many characters once more smoking my bent pipes, trying to ignore their criticism as the story crashes into some blockade. The Mental Patio, and the mystic fire-pit slowly are forming up again within the bone fortress of skull where my tales all begin, with smoke, coffee, and bits of determination. Come, my friends! I call forth again that circle around warmth that once I cherished so much, of imaginary friends who sit with me during striving to tell stories. Hark, a sparkle. Just a small ember of that old blazing cauldron that kept me warm while writing, and whose dancing flames lit shadows into distinct forms hinting at characters. I exhale slow, to excite that glow into the bonfire of imagination that once blazed in my mind, providing a strange inner space within my thick skull for tales birth, blossom, grow, and more. A hopeful Dyfedd Rex 29Aug2018
(edited due to me forgetting how to format stuff, it has been so long.)

Backing the Wrong Horse - Another poem of warning

You backed the wrong horse,
and it might not make the finish line.
The poor thing runs out of control
rider tossed aside by a stumble
as he yanked the reins too late
to avoid a rather stupid muddle.

The horse is now pale
lathered in sweat of fear
knowing by actions taken inside
that noisy starting gate this race
that set it out of jockey's control
and lets it run amok down furlong's of track.

We talk not of horses here,
but barbarians played off against
one another like chessmen on board,
by fools who thought themselves puppetmasters
making their marionettes dance wildly
by pulling their silken strings of privilege.

One barbarian too close
the other holding your purse-strings tight,
and now you both find no room
left to make them dance about,
amid the wreckage you created
with their silly cavorting about.

Hear the katana being drawn out slow
and know the days will come again
when those who lived by Bushido's code
say enough is damned well enough,
and swing their blades about in rage,
over being pushed around.

Know the power of wealth catches
even those supposedly above it
as you see corruption around you,
or worse encourage it like your ally does,
and feel the noose of your own tying
cinch around your precious necks.

You thought yourselves the center
of the world, sitting in the 'Middle',
but arrogance at your seeming stability
has left you vulnerable to eastern arrows
that have not far to arc through sky
turning red with sun-borne flames.

Now I tell you of another horse,
metaphorical in nature, for sure,
that will falter before leaving its paddock
and pull up lame, needing put down,
after shying away from a rider
who sought to ride in peace, not war.

This horse is red in color,
smaller than its mind would think,
because it failed to see something
of the tangling strings which unravel slow
pointing out the puppetmasters
to the once unwitting crowd.

Your ally is a fool, you know it.
To tied up in his own criminal behavior
and your actions turn out too late
to save the puppet's dance
into your play of war and death,
as flames crawl towards your paddle.

Your ally tugged strings too hard
and now far puppet whirls about a web
of deceit and questionable actions
that already cast enough shadows on scenery
to let the audience know the end
will not be as planned one time.

And the near puppet, lifting arms
threatens to ignite the whole theater,
as uneasy neighbors awaken to the clamor
and a few turn in rage on those
who set the town afire
just to control a few more acres.

You know who you are,
or better, for I wish not to name
the fools and the puppets
unless forced to do so
to stop a wildfire of fools desire
from turning a jeweled orb into

a dying cinder that glows.

29Nov2017 -  A rather pissed off Dyfedd Rex, who understood the 108.3, but wants the North to go with it.

Paths of Damnation - The Final Chapter (never got to the parts between)

We were gathered in the rooms above the inn. Rooms we had spent so many days, evenings and nights in talking with those gone and those still with us. I had come too late to change the battle's outcome. Five survivors. Of twenty six rash young fools, only five had lived, and we may still lose Billenius. Her breath had burnt him badly as he tried to reach Nonia to save her. Arms, legs, chest, face, all burnt. He had inhaled her breath and thus scorched his lungs and throat as well. And unless the gods would grant healing to him, or the great healer come soon, nothing would save him. 

The local priests of his kind are trying valiantly to save him, and failing. Only the gods could save them. Or that servant of my sire, if he could be found. I could feel the old lizard, even across all that expanse of sand to my east, flying here himself. He had told to guard this elf, but I had failed. I was certain that the rage I felt was more at me than the bitch of our kine up that mountain. She had withdrawn not because of my presence, I knew now. One of those upon my back was who she had feared in that moment. Rutilius was not the fool we had all thought, and his rage had surpassed mine on that ridge below her lair. 

And now, I had to play the waiting game. To see who would come first, the death god of his folk to take his spirit from his flesh, or father and his healer. Had I the knowledge of how to call him, I would break the rules of all and call upon the rider of the ass to come to his aid. 

The fear of the blue ones screamed across the leagues of desert, as my sire roared by them, I could sense them all, seeking the deepest pits of sand to hide from the rage of the heir of the Lord of the Arbitrations. And it was a terrifying rage, one that was causing fear even in the heights above this town, where the Queen of Flame lay trying to heal her own wounds, dealt more by the ones she had maimed and slain than we who came in rescue. I knew I would taste some piece of that rage, even if it were only words. 

The dwarf beside him with the arm so chewed up by servants of the beast was crying as the dwarven chirugeon sawed off the arm above the elbow. But the tears were not for himself, but his dead twin still up there on the mountain's foothills, where ever the creatures of flame had taken his body to toss aside or consume with their inner flames.

Still I feel my sire, there is no cooling in his rage, or his determination to be here in time to save those he can. This is not the beast that others think he is, but the one I know of, who does have a heart, and it is as red and loving as all think it is black and cold. Billenius was my friend, and for that father had spoken with him several times over the years. Then something else had grown between them, a respect for each other, or what they were to me. I know not still. 

There is the displacement of air outside and the rage is here, but contained more closely of the sudden. I hear the howling winds raging out from where he has teleported to, like the storms of the desert that often assail this town on the benches that rise from the desert floor. He is here, there is hope. Doors burst apart before the healer as he enters, giving commands to bring him supplies for healing and surgery. All know who Zotikos is, the great healer who serves my sire. 

None know the whole truth, and if they had, he would have been slain in that moment, out of fear he had come to ally with the bitch. The door opens, and he strides in with a pace that is nearly a run. He bypasses the three the local healers had thought to save, and approaches Billenius. He stops and hisses loudly. 

"Bahai-Luthna-Naish." With that naming, my own mind exploded. She had forged her own fate, created the thing that we dragons feared the most. Sees-Without-Eyes" that my sire's sire's sire had prophesied of. The bane who would slay the great dragons of the day and choose from those he left alive to be the next Lords of the Arbitraitions to take back our ancient homeland.

Now I knew the respect of mine sire for mine friend. 

Alive, just distracted

I am alive.

Not Dead, not hospitalized, institutionalized (though some argue I should be), or homeless again.

Just been too dang busy and worn out to write properly. What I have written, well, I'd need a new blog, with that bloody gate that informs you it is "adult material" and too poorly written to share anyways.

Not that I intend to stay silent much longer.

Part of the problem of late is that my "news-junkie" problem has arisen again, and needs dealing with soon. Preferably by things calming the hell down in this world.