I am teh rawk
Jul. 29th, 2007 09:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taleyaSorry, Feeling all egotistical. I blame the amarula.
Only one person on my Flist has read it in its entirity (waves to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
madscot) and siamesegoth2 has been reading parts and squeaking at me, so what the hell. I'll share it. Lets face it, a lot of the time this LJ is for me to look back at the meandering ways of my life as well as to post goatse stargates and odd news articles.
This is the prologue to the piece that landed me, out of the blue, a OMG FER REAL publishing offer for a nice sum of money a few years back. I didn't take it. Thought long, thought hard, decided ...no. I didn't need it. So I politely refused.
If you're not interested, wander on by. If you are.....
There’s an old, dark poem. Everyone knows, or at least part of it. Not everyone knows the name, but everyone knows it, remembers it, remembers the way it touched their hearts, the part of them they wished didn’t exist, the part of them that breaks free in the darkness of night and feeds on their fear.
It’s the silhouette on your curtain, the one you can’t explain. It’s the creak of floorboards in the dead of night. It’s the snuffling noises at the other side of the suddenly fragile-seeming door that separates and defends your safe, warm, bright-lit house from the darkness outside.
The poem was wrong.
It’s already here.
Only one person on my Flist has read it in its entirity (waves to
madscot) and siamesegoth2 has been reading parts and squeaking at me, so what the hell. I'll share it. Lets face it, a lot of the time this LJ is for me to look back at the meandering ways of my life as well as to post goatse stargates and odd news articles.This is the prologue to the piece that landed me, out of the blue, a OMG FER REAL publishing offer for a nice sum of money a few years back. I didn't take it. Thought long, thought hard, decided ...no. I didn't need it. So I politely refused.
If you're not interested, wander on by. If you are.....
There’s an old, dark poem. Everyone knows, or at least part of it. Not everyone knows the name, but everyone knows it, remembers it, remembers the way it touched their hearts, the part of them they wished didn’t exist, the part of them that breaks free in the darkness of night and feeds on their fear.
Ill winds mark its fearsome flight,
And autumn branches creak with fright
The landscape turns to ash and crumbs
When something wicked this way comes...
And autumn branches creak with fright
The landscape turns to ash and crumbs
When something wicked this way comes...
It’s the silhouette on your curtain, the one you can’t explain. It’s the creak of floorboards in the dead of night. It’s the snuffling noises at the other side of the suddenly fragile-seeming door that separates and defends your safe, warm, bright-lit house from the darkness outside.
Crystal water turns to dark
Where ‘ere its presence leaves its mark
And boiling currents pound like drums
When something wicked this way comes...
Where ‘ere its presence leaves its mark
And boiling currents pound like drums
When something wicked this way comes...
The poem was wrong.
It’s already here.
