Welcome to Dincaras Lair,

If you have browsed throughout our site, you would have no doubt encountered some visual poems along the way.

The poetry below was written for many purposes, the main one being therapy to let the demons out. Other reasons would be of course love. Love for everything and everyone.

Below is a list of poetry collections to view in their entirity. Some have been put into their correct order, others are a shamble.

This is to keep everyone honest, and means you have to come back tomorrow and see what's on the slab.

Please do the right thing and do not plagerise this poetry.

Much appreciation.

Days of Memory Poetry by Tony Corkery

A collection of poems written in the dark ages of manhood. Adolesence, depression, and all the good things in life.

Days of Memory

In the days of memory
Of dazed states of mind,
In the days of memory,
We almost lost mankind.

Long and horrific was that night.
With the smell of the dying,
And the unforgettable sight,
Of lost children crying.

Mothers were forever wondering,
If their babies were to be born.
Fathers were forever pondering,
If their kin would see a dawn.

All the pain and misery,
Will the teachers tell,
Our children of our world history?
Telling of how it fell.

They never cared of what we were taught.
Now there’s no one left to blame.
Our days are growing short,
We could have lost the eternal flame.

Mothers will tell of the sorrow,
Fathers will tell of the lame.
Both fear tomorrow,
For it holds the same.

In the days of memory,
Of dazed states of mind.
In the days of memory
We lost mankind.

The Four Riders

Four riders came out of the sky,
On stallions of fire and ice.
Everyone just stood by;
It came as such a surprise.

This is today, and tomorrow,
Is held with much fear,
Pain, and Sorrow.
Of the world's nuclear year.
The Riders are here!
They have duties to perform,
Which are all too clear.
Hurry Leaders. Reform!

On a stallion of fire,
Came the first.
"War" was his name,
By far the worst.
He arrived first,
To clear the way,
To make it worse,
For those that stay.

Thus, the second came along
And cleared the nonsense.
Those that have survived,
Come and meet "Pestilence".
He is going to help,
You to become corrupt,
All rapingly abrupt.

Everyone is starving,
The third has arrived,
Plague and "Famine".
Can you possibly survive?
Hunger has set in.
Everything is rotten.
Do you remember how you ate,
Or maybe you have forgotten?

Now for the final rider.
You ask, "why is he last?"
But if you are a survivor,
You'd wish time would pass.
For "Death" has no mercy,
Nor discrimination.
There is no escape from
A world annihilation

Times Up

Where to go, if anywhere's best?
Between you and me and him,
We’re just pawns in chess,
Put in the front line.

Down by the waters edges,
Up in the mountains high,
Looking for the mystical hedge,
That will lead us out of this hell.

Progressively, we moved on unaware,
Crawling, walking, running,
Until we confronted him, standing there.
Bewildered, we just stared.

He was a wan apparition
Doing nothing but his job.
Riding his dark appaloosa,
Down upon us, as was his eternal way.

He stopped and quietly waited.
Time had lost it's meaning.
It is his time now, undebated.
Then the reaper bellowed, ""Time is up!"


Fire and ice,
Sugar and spice,
Ashes to dust,
A love to lust.

All I ever wanted was a house
To shelter a maybe spouse,
For our kids to run around.
This I found to be sound.

Then along came the maniacs,
Whom we gave the axe
To hew the path
For the psychopath.

They released this sour,
Awfully immense power.
This is the politician;
Now peace is an impossible mission.

So now we run scared,
For the resistance is dead.
They have taken control
On most people's soul.

They made us asunder
With the prophesied number.
Without it's dread,
There's simply no bread.

Before I pass on,
Please write my song
About this horrible wrong,
And pass it along.


Carrier of a broken heart,
Who's going to break this spell.
Carrier of a broken heart,
I"m really going through hell.

It has been broken a lot,
To be discarded and thrown into a heap.
I'm starting to believe,
In the lover's leap.

Many a time it has been mended,
Just to be broken again.
I'm beginning to believe,
It's all in vain.

So who's going to help me
And not leave me bust?
To have a proper relationship,
Not one of lust?

Diary of a Lonely Man

In the blistering heat,
I walked a cobbled street,
Searching for an idea,
For this book I carry here.

As I walk along this street,
I heard the shuffling of many feet,
Then to my surprise,
It was right before my eyes.

It was bound with an elastic band,
And was written by a shaky hand.
It told a short story,
Which told of no glory.

So I will commence,
Not meaning any offence,
Telling as much as I can,
Of this diary of a lonely man.


Usually laughter runs through our street,
Carried along by a thousand feet.
Dawn till late,
My, how these times are great!

With a new birth,
There is a lot of mirth
And a fair bit of celebrating.
My, how these times are exhilarating!

But there are the ups and downs
To drown out the joyful sounds.
But we do recover well.
My, how these times are, swell!

Day in, day out,
These times, without a doubt,
Are free of all misery!
But the future, I cannot see.


Insanity, it makes me cold,
Insanity, it takes control,
Insanity, it's got a hold,
On my inner soul.

So lay me down to sleep,
In that hole six foot deep.
And I promise never to creep,
From that long, deep sleep.

So I promised yesterday,
That in that hole I would stay.
But to silently lay;
I cannot do, forever a day.


It's happened once again!
The schizophrenic has lost his mind.
Mysteries, puzzles, riddles,
No answers can he find.

Sometimes sweet,
Sometimes sour,
Personalities change
Hour by hour.

He is intelligent,
And thinks he has E.S.P..
It scares the other personalities,
But at times, he really can see.

Sometimes evil,
Sometimes subdue,
Fights himself,
Then starts anew.

At times, he is alright,
Situated in a large crowd.
But when he is the other,
He becomes fearful when friends are loud.

Sometimes here,
Sometimes not,
In a bed,
Or is he in a cot?

Come and visit him;
Please don't misbehave.
See him, at last, in ease.
Kneel beside his lonely grave.


Vibrant colours shone,
Upon the descent.
The passage was long,
Narrow and bent.

The stars hastened by;
They seemed to entwine.
My thoughts were as dry,
As a glass of white wine.

From that hallowed place,
I have been evicted.
To face the human race,
And a life predicted.

My guardian may, pay me a visit,
As this place I shall forget,
But not in my spirit,
And that’s what I will regret.

Images and Colours

Over the next two years,
Life will be in images and colours,
Immune to all fears,
Emitted from others.

An astral trip to Saturn
Is as easy as cake.
But, to decipher the pattern,
May make your head ache.

The colours of the night
And visions of rain
Sometimes slip into the right
Hemisphere of the brain.

Logic is on the left side;
This comes later on
When we use mathematics to divide
And grammar to help us get along.

The right uses images and colours to communicate,
Where as the left just doesn't understand.
But if these thoughts, you able to translate,
Then time and space are in the palm of your hand.


On the plains of existence,
I fought the great fued.
To keep my distance,
And to remain in my solitude.

He spoke in a soft tongue,
As this was my guardian's way.
He said that I was too young,
And that here I couldn't stay.

The trip was to be short,
Not at all a pleasure.
"Can't you have a second thought, my friend?
That I will treasure."

"My guardian that I hold high,
From this plain I will be rend.
Do I have to say good-bye,
To you my spiritual friend?"

What is the world going to bestow,
Upon our Daniel Mooresythe?
His talents, people will try to get.
His gifts may destroy their life.


The final astral mission,
To be in limbo for two years.
Is to complete the transition,
As already have my peers.

Like a moth to candlelight,
Images we attract,
Unaware of their flight,
Into our subconsciences are trapped.

To conquer this shell
In which we do arrive,
The controls are hell
And it's hard to drive.

To keep it upright,
Balance is the trick;
Like a newborn chick in flight,
The takeoff isn't that quick.

At first, it's hard alright,
But soon, it will be fun
To see faces of delight
As a father catches his son.


The word freedom,
Is such a lovely word.
But what I have to say,
To you might sound absurd.

My first conception of freedom,
Is tranquillity and peace.
I think it is quite obvious,
We expect it least.

But death is the greater,
It's freedom ever drifts,
Throughout our population,
To me is God's greatest gift.

Hero of a Dream

I have a son and a daughter,
And a lovely young wife.
I think to myself,
We lead a simple life..

He's one of a kind!

A puppet in a lonely chair,
He looks terribly bored.
He thinks to himself,
Hey! I'll start a war.

He's become a little blind!

"Huh, how do I start?
A push here or push there.
A pinch of salt and maybe
I'll throw in a scare."

He loves to dream!

"Oh no! What's happening?
It's got so out of hand.
No one loves me anymore.
Everything has become so bland."

Life of Luxury

I've thought about a life of luxury.
I've thought about a life of fame.
But I'll tell what sucks you in;
It's about the dustbin game.

When you live a life of luxury,
All, you need a fair bit of money.
When you live a life of fame,
Well your days don't look so sunny.

But I lead a simple life;
I put on a bit of a tease.
I feel on top of the world.
Best of all, I feel at ease.

I've seen people with their luxury.
I've seen people with their fame.
I'll be honest;
They all look a bit lame.

I"ve seen those people look so dull,
But on the screen they really shone.
All, I've looked hard enough
And I've seen what's really wrong.

New Star

There’s a new star in the heavens tonight,
A star that forever will shine bright,
A star that will never lose it's brightness,
A star that will always be of fullness.

Death came to you so unfairly,
Struck you nigh on forty.
Friend of many, foe of none,
Many a heart you had won.

You have now found that everlasting peace,
Although your earthly vehicle has ceased.
I know that you will always be around
To help Nan and Pop's hearts once again become sound.

You never had a son,
But a marriage was so, a great one.
Now that you have left us all,
When I go give me a call.

Old Man

Can you see the old man,
Walking down the road?
Can you see the old man,
Carrying a heavy load?

The old man is lonely.
The old man might quit.
For he finds it so troublesome,
Trying to make the "Big Hit".

In his search for love,
There is a lot of caper.
But for now, he suffices,
With his pen and paper.

Maybe he will find love,
And once again become young.
Maybe he will find the love,
That will bear his son.

The old man will see his son,
Walking down the road.
The old man will see his son,
Carrying a lighter load.

Dreams Story telling poetry written by Tony Corkery

Dreams is a short story in poetry form, written for our children on their journey to and from Kalgoorlie.


Enter the world of dreams,
Where nothing is what it seems.
Understanding the myth and mystic,
And dreams become almost realistic.

To hear the chants of folk lore,
To dance and feel it's powerful draw.
To smell and taste their worlds within,
To see where our dreams begin.

"Blasphemy" the sceptics all accuse,
For their world is small and obtuse.
Seeing through an unopened mind;
Fear of the unknown is all they find.

So take my hand and read to your will,
With love and fantasy your mind will fill.
Come enter my world of dreams,
Where nothing is what it seems.


Standing on his platform,
Only he can see.
Life at it's best,
Life through his reality.

Standing on his platform,
Wearing his armour of cloth,
He sees not a soul;
So he incurs no-ones' wrath.

Passer-byes see him stand,
Closed umbrella aiming for the sky.
Black shirt, white tie and grey suit;
Black briefcase held roughly chest high.

He sees them naught,
For he holds the sword of light,
His armour of ancient tradition,
Not to mention the shield of a knight.

Standing on any platform,
As anyone can surely see.
Life has it's splendour;
Life has it's beauty.

Parallel Lines

He looks down the snaking parallel lines,
And sees the beast approach with electric speed.
Patiently he waits for it to come closer,
Then he boards and to warnings he pays heed.

From within the carriage the beast does carry,
He sees a different world pass him by;
Through endless villages with no countryside,
To the castles that seemingly scrape the sky.

He leaves the beast and now journeys on foot,
Through the closed in markets and open alleys.
He makes a mental note of all the peasants;
To count them it would be never-ending tallies.

He enters an inn of the cooking sort,
Deciding to have his break fast meal.
Tempting urges rise that he can't subside,
Seeing the wench’s buttocks he must have a feel.

Before leaving he pays for his fill,
Continuing with his journey once again,
He knows he must council with his brothers,
Before the clouds turn into rain.


He joins with his brothers,
Be they brothers in crime.
Deciding wrong from right,
Determining lengths of time.

Arguing about who shall fight,
The skirmishes to be fought.
And if there is need of a referee,
Can that referee be bought?

Then it's off to the arena,
Asking for the truth complete.
Until absolution is resolved,
The rumours are kept discreet.

When the fight is at an end,
He rejoins council with his brothers.
Discussing what took place that day,
And tomorrow will there be others.

About Turn

He leaves his brothers in their den,
Starting another journey to where he began.
No time for any dilly dally,
There's no time for any fun.

He passes by the cooking place,
Noticing that it is now full of peasants.
The markets and alleys are all but bare,
Empty of their barters and idle presents.

He paces himself towards the gathering,
A place totally overrun by peasants and gentry.
He has to find the beast that bore him,
A solution apparently not so elementary.

He boards his carriage the beast does bear,
Passing through the villages at a great rate.
His temper frays from being shunted around,
Like sheep in pens he gets irate.

The doors open to his relief but then,
He is sucked out by human stampede.
Lifting himself from the platform floor,
He dusts himself knowing there is no need.

Home fire

He walks past yet another corner,
On the pitch blacked put path.
Almost on the verge of near exhaustion,
He wishes the distance was only half.

The sun is set in the west,
The horizon is encompassed with a red glow.
Darkness is approaching from the east,
The Evening star is beginning to grow.

He passes inns and other abodes,
Then in his heart he feels a yearning.
Before he even turns he can smell it,
And now he sees the Home fire burning.

The journey that took forever,
Is but one world's turning.
He sees their windowed silhouettes,
They wait in patience for his returning.

His footsteps echo upon the path,
His faithful hound barks with delight.
The door opens with arms opened wide,
Happy that their man's home for the night.


The darkness echoes with the rain,
For such is this earliest of hours.
She has prepared the morning meal;
Her warrior is off to fight the evil powers.

His engagements seem never ending,
She rarely sees him at all.
She loves him with all her heart,
Treasuring the moments together, however small.

He finishes his meal and brew,
Leans over to kiss her upon the cheek.
He openly expresses his love for her,
And for their children ever so meek.

From the door he blows her a kiss,
He has left her for another day.
This ritual occurs day in and day out,
But it still saddens her when he is away.


Sessim detests the awful word "chores".
It's like an ever threatening plague.
Chores nevertheless have to be done,
But whilst doing them she's quite vague.

Dishes, a never ending pile;
No sooner has she finished,
One but another tends to appear.
Some clean, others covered with spinach.

Dusting, where does it all come from?
Her warrior tells her that it is their skin;
How could she possibly believe that,
If true she would have noticed somethin'.

Sweep, clean, and mop the floors.
Wipe, polish, and screen the windows.
No appreciation is forthcoming,
But deep in her heart she knows.

Constantly preparing meals,
Forever getting the kids ready.
If a mere male had to do this,
It would make him quite heady.


All the chores are out the way,
Time to relax and have a chat.
Sessim bundles the kids and walks,
To see a friend who lives out back.

The children are placed in a room,
Her friend offers her a cup of coffee.
Sessim offers a tobacco joy in turn,
Then mentions that she'd prefer a cup of tea.

"Did you know Mabels doing George,
And that Marg is doing John?
Not to mention that John is doing George,
I wonder how the Jones's are getting on?"

This meaningless goes on for an eternity,
Filling the void in a time of nothing.
All good comes to an end,
The passing chat fades into the evening.

Sion De Press

The quiet is an unending masquerade of light and dark.
The light is barely embracing the dark foreboding clouds,
that seem to be moving on an unmoving plane.

The sounds that emanate from beneath the rise and fall of the padded feet,
is captured and sped off into the distance.

Unnerving eerie impressions flood and fill the senses with outstanding contradictions.
That is to be in and amongst an active environment, yet to be removed.
Not physically, but more of a mental rift.

In the greyness of dusk the cars ferry by,
some with lights and others not.
They seemingly float by the shops,
who use their lights,
to entice patronage through their doors.

She paces on through the lights,
the noise, and the darkness.
She glances skyward to clear her mind.
It is then, for the first time in her entire existence, that she feels it.
A split in the very fabric of time.
So much more than a portal from one aeon to the next,
but a compelling, almost overbearing,
urge to reach in and grasp that parallel dimension.

She savours the lack, in all of it's unique, tranquil beauty.
The lack of light, noise, and darkness.
To walk alone through the world in as we know it.

Night Close

The night has moved back in,
To envelop her life once again.
She prepares for the return of her warrior,
To warm and dry him of the days rain.

They lovingly embrace for a while,
Talking shortly of their days events.
Routinely the routines return,
Meals served, kids to their beds.

The warmth of the open hearth,
Draws them closer to one and other and fire.
Ever so closer the snuggle and embrace,
The night closes sensing each others desires.


These four walls are my life,
And have been as long as time.
Outside there are many riddles,
In the lattice-work of many a rhyme.

Content within an abstract place,
Where everything is out of my reach.
Helped along by the bigger ones,
Learning by practising what they preach.

Differentiating between reality and fantasy,
Is a real hard push man!
Dragons and dinosaurs are easy enough,
But not so with the Bushman.

He is everywhere both night and day,
He hears every word I say.
To him, there is no-one to obey,
He is with me in every way.

Night Comes

Creatures stir when night comes,
They're born out of still shadows.
Structures are transformed from others,
Lamp poles changing into gallows.

Night light,
Strange light,
Grey light,
Black light.

Hang man,
Sad man,
Bag man,
Fall man.

Our God,
Your god,
A god,
Any god.

The mind races with thoughts within,
Changelings surround me in abundance.
If daylight doesn't break soon,
I'll be encompassed with utter madness.


Lanructon is the ruler among them,
Although his form has not yet been seen.
Yet his presence is strongly felt,
And his wits are both sharp and keen.

He rules with a tight rein,
Rhythm and rhyme is not his game.
For his world and it's inhabitants,
Are mirrored and it's definitely no game.

He is so good at what he does,
Able to frighten even the bravest.
His uncanny knack to words,
Like "who can possibly save us?"

Yet I've managed to control him,
On a summers night secret came.
His bearing powers have dissipated,
There's some control in knowing his name.


The decision is set in my mind,
To break open the bonds of prison.
Able to walk one but separate paths,
Surely as light passes through a prism.

Venturing into Lanructon's realm,
I find strength in anonymity.
He knows not who I am,
But his subservients know all about me.

All alone in a complete newness,
No assistance from the Big Ones.
An implosion of exploding sights,
Seen through many setting suns.

I wander about in total wonder,
Saturating my senses with utmost awe.
The chances to see new things,
New people and their differing lore.

Blue Lights

What a horrible sound it was,
A screeching to stand hairs on their end.
The screaming seemed to be getting closer,
Blue Lights appeared from the roads bend.

Cautiously I moved on forward,
Using the bushes to cast shadowy forms.
Closer, ever so closer I crept,
Keeping low on the patchy lawns.

Their coverings were all the same,
Their colour echoing in the Blue Light.
They had surrounded a runaway vehicle,
Much like an ambush's prowess of might.

All hell was released in an instant,
Run the ambushed tried but not for long.
They were rounded up like sheep,
Packaged into Blue Lights and were gone.


They were dancing skyward,
Licking and flicking around the frame.
They were frightening the occupants,
Never to be ever so tame.

Their terror now reigned supreme,
Dancing everywhere and anywhere.
Ultimate control and ultimate chaos,
Able to dance without a care.

They had everybody screaming,
Running loose and hysterical.
They had them all empowered,
With the dance quite majestical.

The screaming's pitch shifted,
It was higher yet quite strong.
Namerif had come to the rescue,
To quench the dancers song.

Rek Curt

It was totally awesome,
I've never seen so many wheels.
One after the other they came,
Each hot on the other's heels.

Rek Curt reined in the beast,
Bringing it to a slow stop.
Air rushed out from somewhere,
And out the cab Rek did hop.

I followed him into the shop,
'Tis how I learned his name.
I asked all about his life,
He simply replied "trucking's my game."

He told of a wonderful country,
Seen through the trucks windscreens.
Black river sun up to sun down,
Bordered with incredible scenes.

We bade farewell to each other,
With a roar the beast did start.
As the big rig slowly moved off,
There was a strange yearn in my heart.

Opsh Eperke

Her name was hard to pronounce,
Somewhat like a perky whisper.
Her features were almost perfect,
Except under her nose was a whisker.

I found her quite attractive,
Although she was different to me.
Her colour of skin was exotic,
Her long hair as dark as ebony.

She told me that she'd travelled,
From a land so far away.
That there the sun shone constantly,
Virtually keeping the moon away.

We bartered for a while,
Until she discovered I had no money.
But she gave me a wink,
Finding the situation quite funny.

Black River

Well Rek wasn't at all wrong,
That is about the Black River.
It's length is beyond immense,
Done my spine it sends a shiver.

In the days that I have travelled,
I'm at wits end about it's course.
It's tributaries are abundant,
And it carries an incredible force.

Species vary from all kinds,
Walking ways change as well.
There's those with noses on the ground,
As well as those suffering from head swell.

Dwellings also differ in style,
From one tributary to the next.
From slums to towering mansions,
Black River is apparently hexed.

The days seem to merge into the next,
I turn to see that Rek was also right.
Shimmering in the distance there's the jungle,
But the wonderful country has me tonight.

I never knew that there was so many stars,
I can even make out the Milky Way.
That stirring in my heart was real,
The Moon has shown destiny the way.

Rem Raf

From one horizon to the next,
Black River is as straight as a die.
Adjacent horizons are obscured by fields,
I speak of this scenery as no lie.

An occasional bend changes the river,
Towns grow out of nothingness.
All be they small and somewhat musty,
They are not altogether meaningless.

These towns are the lifeblood,
Of what I use to think were riff raff.
But how I could be so wrong,
About the collectively known Rem Raf.

In a one by one basis,
They appear to be insignificant.
But what they do as a whole,
Is utterly and truly magnificent.

The Rem Raf feed the nation,
Ours as well as others.
Creating jobs direct and indirect,
Which helps the fathers and mothers.

The Rem Raf vary from place to place,
Some sit and watch the grass grow.
They let the sun dry their crop,
Then harvest, weed, and re-sow.

There are others who let theirs run wild,
In the wild Country bordered with fences.
But it doesn't matter what creed of Rem Raf,
I know that they are the nations best defence.

A Serpent Called Ni-Art

I stumbled over a piece of steel,
I was amazed that it had a twin.
The steel was like silk thread,
In a race that both worms were eager to win.

In the tales of old,
I'd heard of a serpent called Ni-Art.
I was startled by a pounding,
That was much louder than my own heart.

My eyes followed the parallel lines,
Until they met and became one.
The silk still pounded gently,
But I saw something that would come.

As told in the tales of old,
Ocol did in fact pull Ni-Art along.
As Ocol and Ni-Art came closer,
I could hear her rickety rackety song.

She was as long as miles are;
Her segments differed in shape and size.
She beckoned me to come closer,
To follow as she majestically glides.

Her destination was to be Gold Town,
She said that the journey would be slow.
That if I was to go with her,
I'd learn more than I could ever know.

So I agreed that I would go,
As walking is fun but also tiring.
So, Gold Town here we come,
But for now my mind is retiring.

Scenes Between Sleep

Ni-Art had lulled me to sleep,
With her rickety rackety song.
Dream world was truly welcomed,
For I'd been without sleep for so long.

In the twinkling of an eye,
Or so to speak at least,
I saw flashes of great wonder,
As though my soul was being released.

The scenes between my sleeps,
Were incredible to behold,
To tell of their great beauty,
You simply could not be told.

The plains of grasses and their like,
Their size almost breath taking.
From all points of the compass,
Like malignant cancer they spread unforesaking.

From between another dream wake,
Tranquillity has come to my ease.
From all points of the compass,
All I can see is parachute trees.

Sleep embraces me yet again,
And when I awake I am in awe.
A redness as earthly as can be,
Like the land itself had an open sore.

There is a strange kind of feeling,
Once you set foot on this land.
For it gets into your blood,
With it's freedom hand in hand.

Gold Town

Night had fallen upon Gold Town,
A night that you could not possibly believe:
Although I was surrounded by heavy machinery,
The freedom I felt was beyond belief.

This is the closest that I can express,
A sensation that purely must be felt.
It's like having four of a Royal Flush,
Then the fifth card to you is dealt.

The machines murmur away continuously,
Yet you can still hear the crickets chirp.
The night, oh the night is sensational;
It's like an incredible pain without the hurt.

From where I view this magnetic scene,
I see Gold Town's lights twinkle with ease.
The day is hot and the night is cool,
For this place my soul does indeed please.

Nanny Goat Hill

I had heard of sacred sites,
But had never been close to feel their chill.
As I wandered throughout the Gold Town,
I came across Nanny Goat Hill.

My understandings were turned inside out,
This couldn't possibly be a sacred site.
The natives were camouflaged amongst the rubbish,
And drinking from the flagon was the only rite.

I had to take a few side steps,
To avoid treading on the inhabitants of the hill . . .


Oh hell ! What an incredible pain.
I see stars above me but I'm in darkness.
I'm confined in what appears to be a shaft.
Oh the pain, Oh the foreboding darkness.

Blue Light and Bulance Man

They must have heard my screams,
For there's strange lights in the sky.
Well, as much of the sky as I can see,
As the portal slowly stirs to life.

Oh no, the Blue Lights are here,
But they are mixed in confusion with red.
I fear that they will torture me,
Twist and screw with my head.

A rope slaps me across the face,
Awakening me from a dazed state of mind.
The portal darkens only to light up again,
As the figure descends this abandoned mine.

He is a man of the Blue Light's,
But he is surprisingly kind of face.
He beamed a wondrous smile upon me,
Saying "Well, what do you think of this place?"

I released a laugh that this old shaft,
Wouldn't have heard for a long time.
Blue Light Man tied the rope around my waist,
Commenting "It's time to get out of this old mine."

The red lights belonged to the Bulance Men,
Who cared for and mended my injuries.
Upon a stretcher they carried me towards their van,
When Blue Light Man stated, "You'll tell this tale for years."

White Coats and Blue Dresses

They wheeled me through the automatic doors,
Then down the passages to casualty.
There were white coats walking briskly,
And blue dresses parading quite casually.

Everything was so clinically white.
Whiter than the moon on a summers night.
The cleanliness had an overpowering odour,
Sending my nostrils into a dance of fright.

They placed me upon a high rise bed,
Scrutinising my injuries and open sores.
I was surprised with my injuries myself,
I looked like I had seen a few wars.

If ever my heart was to ache with desire,
It'll be memories of the caring nurses.
Their manner and touch touched me deeply,
Even when my cries were full of curses.

I was near on a plaster factory,
One broken leg and one fractured arm.
A few lacerations and a couple of bruises,
But all in all lucky that I came to no greater harm.

Blue Light Man asked me who I was,
So I told him that I was Kildren.
A different kind of smile crossed his face,
That's when he informed me about the missing children.

He said that some of us were runaways,
While sometimes we were flights of fancy.
Others were misfortunate victims of crime,
But I was caught up in some wild fantasy.

Silver Bird

They informed my parents of my whereabouts,
They were relieved to know that I was alive,
They are coming to Gold Town on Silver bird,
Which should soon enough arrive.

In a way I'm happy,
For I do love them so.
But I do hope they understand,
Why I had to up and go.

Well it's time for me to bid adieu,
To say farewell and good-bye.
For now I'm homeward bound,
On Silver bird who flies so high.

Paradise Contradiction Poems written whilst mining in Kalgoorlie.

This collection of poetry stems fom my underground mining years in Kalgoorlie, being newly weds and a family to raise.

Calling Inspiration

The sky was ablaze out toward the west,
The darkness creeping slowly from the east.
Stars were appearing casually one by one,
Like pinholes pricked by an unseen beast.

Night sounds of a chaotic orchestra,
Music of insects and my idle machine.
Drifting off into thoughts and solace,
Hoping to see things as of yet unseen.

Trees stand in dark foreboding shadows,
Serving as memories of a time not gone long.
When powers were constantly standing over us;
Watching over our deeds both right and wrong.

The shadows lift every once in a while,
As the moon appears from behind a black cloud.
Shedding knowledge upon those unknowing:
Individuals standing out amongst a gathered crowd.

The trees lose their overbearing presence,
No longer are they ominous and frightening.
There is a new wave spreading amongst the people,
Both illuminating and quite enlightening.

One world in it’s sky, land, and sea;
Is a thought with emotion running through the deep.
Surely this is not an impossible undertaking,
When there’s nothing left to do but to sleep.


Black is to start this game.
The player is to be Mr Hussein.
He moves his pawn into Kuwait,
Hoping that no one will litigate.

But someone has seen his push;
White player is to be Mr Bush.
His pawn forms an alliance with the Saudi's,
Thus using their runways for the coming sorties.

The game is slow but continues,
It's propaganda splashed all over the news.
Officials see the forthcoming wedge,
Black is mindlessly on edge.

Black's name is now mud;
He unleashes the inaccurate SKUD.
Whitels next move is simple and plain;
Swift and brutal with his jet plane.

Black's knight moves to the border,
Officials are crying out for some order.
White retaliates with much the same,
Playing out this deadly game.

When it all comes to the end,
Who is foe, and who is friend?
Players seem to know when it begins,
That in the end no one wins.

I'm a Garden Too

Some say that there was the big bang,
Others say that by God it was created.
A subject discussed over the millenniums,
Even today it is hotly debated.

Matter was formed out of chaos,
Brilliant heavenly bodies appeared;
Galaxies systems, stars, and planets,
All of their dimensions being tiered.

In my lifetime I never thought I’d see,
What I've seen in the past few weeks;
Man still trying to destroy himself and others,
Yet peace obtaining some ultimate peaks.

Nothing is nothing can't be true,
For souls must surely exist.
When the body vehicle is all but ash,
The soul is home so religions insist.

I'm a part of an intricate garden;
And by and by I wonder why,
Is it so hell bent on self-destruction,
So determined to kill and to die?

Some wonder about the end of the world,
Fear stepping into our hearts everyday.
When it happens it will happen,
And we'll be looked after in God' s own way.

Majestic Stillness

It billowed out from the east,
Dancing softly on the horizon.
Its splendour mirrored its beauty,
A sight to keep one's eye on.

In the majestic stillness it grew,
Succumbing the sky with balls of cotton.
The trees shivered with anticipation,
The quietude all, but now forgotten.

The sky cried out for the parched land,
Overwhelming-.sorrow turning creeks to rivers.
Great for the farmers, yet for others;
A bogged motorist looking, lonely as he quivers.

A weeping sky dries its eyes,
With bursts of gold from up high;
But something is dancing out on the horizon,
What it is, we find out in the nigh.

Weeping Willow

Where? Of where are you,
My weeping willow tree?
Is this terrain too rough,
To support one as fragile as thee?
This place is good for others,
Who have the same as your needs.
They live on in harmony,
Throwing into the wind their seeds.
Like a carpet of green,
They spread out for miles,
Surrounding a water hole of rock,
A travellers view captivated for miles.
If only you could see it,
My weeping willow tree,
Your tears would dry up,
To feel so full and so free.

Ramblings Purely poetical ramblings of a crazy mind.

Ramblings, purely poetical ramblings of a crazy mind. Some are good, Some are bad, but they are an expression of mood at the time.

Lost in a world

Lost in a world,
Not a friend can you find.
Lost in a world,
You feel helplessly blind.

You travel along corridors,
Almost stumble and fall.
A cane, you have no more.
But alas! You hear someone' s call.

The corridors are quite long.
They have many an open hoist.
It's a struggle, but your will is strong.
Try! Try to find that voice.

You walk the long, upward slope.
What are they, blue or green?
There's a new burst of hope,
For these things, you have seen.

You climb upward, more and more,
To confront your own blue eyes.
Behind you are all the doors.
Forward bound to open skies.

Where's the Wall

Where's the wall I'm trying to find,
So I can drive these thoughts from my mind.
To receive it's pleasure I need the wall,
Then I can see what I'm searching for.

The body craves for it's addictive damage,
Yet the soul creates a new way to manage.
Although the wall is hard and cold to the touch,
The body still desires it's violence too much.

The head becomes numb from the bashing,
Images smashing their way through the crashing.
We continue to stagger through until, thud!
Recognition has the sweet taste of warm blood.

I found the wall I've been searching for,
Why wasn't it there when I looked before.
But the wall is too high as you can see,
That there's nothing of what used to be me.


To be judged by their peers,
Or so you were led to believe.
Was the duty of the judicial system,
But they are out to decieve.
Being a juror you are plucked,
From the populace to be a peer.
But you yourself are to be judged,
By whether you look straight or queer.
No questions about your predujices;
Nor any mention of possible bias,
Nor any reason for the challenge,
The judicial system is a mockery of liars.
So much for being judged by your peers,
Your verdict is deemed before the jury sits.
Barristors and Prosecutors deny the peers,
Because of looks only, it gives me the shits!

Things Unseen

Disadvantaged by isolation I see naught,
That is to say I see less than I ought.
Naïve by the virtue of my young age,
I see the falling of a worldly rage.

I didn’t live and feel the age of old,
If I did my eyes would be blunt with cold.
Their hurt is read about in books of history,
A future to them shrouded by mystery.

I hear that our history is changing too,
Maybe it would be favourable to an elite few.
The people’s voice appears to be stronger,
Airing words that peace could last even longer.

I can only hear, see, think with thought,
Presented by the news so I am taught.
To voice an opinion both cut and clean,
I cannot do for these things unseen.

Four Crows

For Christ sake, is that all you can carry?
Never being worthy enough these thoughts resonate,
Forever crying out for acceptance or a kind word,
No known fathers love for this child less than eight.

Forever trying to please and fit in with the wrong fit,
Always yearning and craving for the darker side of life.
Never understanding the longing to be a part of the dark,
Light's hold on me is full of pain and unending strife.

In solitude I find peace,
Hidden in the hallowed halls,
The black dog is crawling in,
Four Crows sitting on my walls.
I try not to listen to them,
I try to not visualise them,
I try to not speak ill of them,
Mostly I just try to ignore them.

In the overbearing presence of nothingness projected toward,
One will either adapt and find a way or simply wither and die.
To gain strength out of solitude and climb back into the light,
To escape the recluses' grip one needs help from a soulful guide.

Slow and insidious the journey out takes one step at a time,
One learns to hide themselves behind their riddles and mask.
Carefully treading in fear of reawakening the hurtful passage,
Always trying to please and do of what the others did ask.

The four crows were sitting on the wall facing to the east,
Opened the iron clad doors releasing the black dogs to the west.
We have hidden behind that which we passionately advocate against,
Failed one commandment, the other, time is surely putting to the test.

The dogs are back feeding on the carcass of a wretched soul,
The crows wait patiently to pick out the eyes with no door,
The angels can no longer piece together the fallen and unwhole,
The demons dance because they finally cracked the restrained flaw.

The Keeper and Reapers Bet

Empty spaces shatter the silence,
Onto the shores of isolated islands.
List fully bobbing upon the waves,
Solitude eagerly holds onto it's slaves.
Time rings out her deafening chime,
Watching them randomly grasp a rhyme.
Rhythm is waywardly back tracked,
Exaggerating the times between contact.
Measure creating it's own new paradox,
Stretching and contracting worldly clocks.

Rhythm, rhyme, time, and measured paradox,
Clocks turn the tide in and out of rocks.
The hollow echo of the clock's ticks and tocks,
The keeper and reaper take bets on who knocks.

Keeper and Reaper's game is now in play,
Who can honestly answer what is today.
Today's today is nothing but yesterday's tomorrow,
Leaving it up to us to celebrate or follow sorrow.
Although the heart pains with the distance,
Memories serve to pursue our very existence.
Going with the flow of the shore's swell,
Sometimes the story we tell quite well.
From the pit we shall rise above the wraith,
Demonstrating that all you need is faith.

Copyright 2019 3D Poetry

Serenades to a Priceless Princess Love poems and poetic proposals.

What an evil web we weave, when first we set out to decieve. Love and devotion poetry.

I See an Eagle

Do you remember the first letter,
I gave you not so long ago.
I still drop in a few lines,
To let my feelings flow

I am writing yet another,
Beneath a rising moon.
A message entwined in verse,
Will be spoken aloud soon.

Whenever I see an eagle,
In a cloudless sky,
Love turns to reality,
Letting out a silent cry.
Yearning to be so free,
Obsessed to be as one;
Understanding what you see,
May be possible under love’s sun.
Accepting one’s responsibility as,
Rains wash reasoning out of sight,
Restoring to light a love,
Yes! A love so bright.
Mesmerising eyes have my heart.
Eternally, our souls will never part.


It sits in a room;
Alone, yet in touch,
With a world it has not seen.
But a world, it has experienced.
Crimson walls surround it;
Closing in on it’s existence,
Then retreating once again,
With relentless time and measure.
Unable to speak and see,
It’s only senses, feeling and emotions.
All these and more handicaps,
Would have you believe it as useless.
Alas, with it's communicators aid,
It is a powerful being;
So powerful, and so ancient.
It continued to exist through the millenniums;
As we continue to live our lives,
So too will it live and flourish.
With added inspiration,
The poet's heart will continue to converse,
With those who are willing,
To listen and understand,
It's communicator.

Long Time Passing

As time passes from year to year,
It all becomes so crystal clear,
You may think of me as a tall oak,
But I am only so through your love, no joke.

I need you more as the years pass by,
I crave your essence and euphoric high.
In you I see myself and glow,
For without you I am but a shadow.

I am but a poor poet,
Somehow I think you know it,
I simply can’t tell you enough,
I can’t live without your love.

In all honesty I can’t remember how long,
It has been between a serenade or a song,
Please forgive my forgetfulness,
For I do and will love you none-the-less.

Rhyme and Reason

On a warm summers night,
As we watched the sun set into the west,
These thoughts flood into my mind;
Like the sea by which we are caressed.

Rhyme and reason,
Reason and rhyme,
Time in season,
A season in time.

A love in blossom;
Such a beautiful sight.
A love more vibrant,
Than a candle lit night.

A love both pure and simple.
A love that can try,
The feelings with no answers,
That needn't be questioned why.

This feeling that transcends,
Not a lust but a love.
With my heart it ascends
Into the heavens above.

Wounded in Action

A tremor;
The heart has been moved,
From bliss to blunder,
Love to anger,
The heart has been moved.

A tear;
Falls along the canals,
Coming to rest upon the heart,
Where it hits and tears at,
What is left of right or wrong.

A moment of anger;
Sets it's course through the veins,
Ripping at the heart once more,
No reasons for it's actions,
Just an unending "never wrong" thought.

An apology;
Although not needed,
Is sent forward at haste,
Only to be crushed on impact,
With a cold yet shaken wall.

The remnants;
Of the apology are returned,
To the heart from which it was sent,
Suffering from an unknown confusion,
It ages and dies that little bit.

Writings of an Anonymous Poet

To be loved and to love,
Is an achievement in it’s self.
But to be friends as well as lovers,
Is to grasp an impossible wealth.
Rarely will two individual entities;
Without provocation or knowledge of the other,
Come together so smoothly and passively,
As Nature surely goes to its mother.
Yet this united being suffers,
The intolerable pain of persecuting peers.
A once impenetrable piece of marvel,
Now shrouded in uncertainties and fears.
Through all the trauma and torment,
Placed upon the path of this unison,
Like a rubber ball they in turn bounce back,
Enduring the compression and withstanding the expansion.
Alas, the rubber ball can only last,
As long as a rubber ball can.
Are these the writings of an anonymous poet?
Or are they the cries of a mistaken man?

Mariah's Fire

In a room of ying and yang,
I sit with the winds of Mariah.
Their images rose in tune and sang,
If only to confuse all sense of desire.

Although there's no loneliness in being alone,
The void is prone to an uneasy torment.
It can be eased by word of the phone,
But it's intention is lost all be it meant.

Soul mates they say never part,
They manage to find each other forever.
But absence from the other grabs the heart,
They both see hell hanging on a thin tether.

Months fit into eternity two fold,
Carried by the winds of Mariah.
The only inspiration to keep the heart from cold,
Is to feel the warmth of your fire.

Intended Ploy

Delighted to here your new name,
Another derived of the Gaelic fame.
Righteous and just causes of the same,
Insights revealed for this strange game.
Oh, the game of life has it’s joy,
Night watches this child with it’s toy,
Reaching and twisting with intended ploy,
Once again Mother cries out, OI !!!
Come one and come they all,
Cries through this fleshy wall.
Oh, to dance and gait down the hall,
I know that we shall come this fall.

A New Sense

Something tells me it’s going to be all right,
Loving and listening all through the night.
A new sense of considerable power and might,
Developing within this child of the night.
Even as this yet unborn continues to grow,
Eventually it’s gender we shall finally know.
Zest, energy, full and ready to go,
Racing forward to start the show.
Answers that will soon be revealed,
Returning of the flowers to a barren field,
Oppressors will fear the power that you wield.
Changing their views on a world healed.
Come and dance with me,
Over here, with the other three.

A Silent Thought

I tried to write a love song
I thought about writing a poem.
I ended up writing this note,
That you can read at home.

It’s a place where I want to be,
Is closer than I thought,
Once over the Sea of Tears
I arrived in a safe port.

Within this port's fortress,
Whose walls aren’t of stone,
I find that I’m never lonely,
Although I way be alone.

This port offers variety,
More than can be told.
This port is in my blood,
Here I'll stay till very old.

You can't find this port on any map;
Nor can it be seen from the skies above.
For you are this port
And It is you that I love.

Special Eulogy and commemorative occasion poems.

This poetry was written for special moments in our lives. The passing of loved ones, the birth of new ones.

For An English Rose

As our garden looks through the window,
From the darkness to a room that glows,
Our hearts are filled with warmth and memories,
For we see a vision of an English Rose.

No ordinary rose was our English Rose.
Such a beauty with a touch of elegance.
Not known for her selfish ways,
Sharing in her majestic cadence.

Have you ever seen a rose drink tea?
Mr Kiplings says that he in fact knows.
For he has spent many an hour conversing,
With our courageous English Rose.

But alas our English Rose grew weary,
Tired within reach of the light.
As was our English Rose’s want,
She took to flight on a Saturday Night.

Our English rose now looks through the window,
Smiling, caring, and free of pain.
Watching over her own little roses,
Sipping Tea with Mr Kiplings again.

Shelter in Each Other

Bitter cold winter winds blow hard,
Across the harsh unforgiving plains.
A coldness to pierce the warmest heart,
Tormenting those caught up in it’s path.

Unable to see the forest through the trees,
A decade would pass before the fog could lift.
Like overlapping snakes entwined without contact,
Criss and cross their own paths would twist.

The heat moves in and out of mirages,
On the lonely empty desert sands.
The sun burns deep into uncovered flesh,
Tearing at their faces in their hands.

No matter how unpleasant the weather,
Henry and Lyn have found their shelter;
With each other, for each other,
More so, they found shelter in each other.


A whisper upon the wind,
A whisper so faint and thin,
Tells of things it has seen,
Whispering of times that have been.
It tears at the strongest of heart,
Watching two souls being torn apart,
By forces beyond their control,
Trying to separate their eternal soul.
But no power can part everlasting love,
For when time transcends the other above,
They shall once again be together,
Happily living in their love forever.

Welcome to My Parlour Said the Spider to the Fly

Welcome to my parlour said the spider to the fly; more aptly "Welcome to my poetry said the writer to the reader. For it as much the case for the fly as it is for the reader. If you were able to flick through the pages then maybe you wouldn't become the spiders next meal, but untangle yourself to fly away.

But. To read the poems in depth, not to browse, but to read as if you were in fact the writer. Then. Then you would see a totally different world indeed.

You will be able to feel the raw emotion. You will be able to sense the fears. Visually seeing all the fantasies. Be entangled in the intrigue.

You can listen to, and hear, differing views on politics, the supernatural, and the ultimate question; are we alone?

You can be swept off your feet with the sweet serenades, and yet then, be brought crashing down by the broken hearts. Only to be lifted back up again with a love song. Be it of a person, country, or just the populace in general.

All in all, you would be caught in the spiders web. Not to become a feeble meal. But. But, maybe. To become a spider yourself.

See the person. See the Spider.

Title to Song

Oh I do recall my first, real, memory,
At the age of three, what a man stood in front of me.
Three fingers on his left hand was all he had,
And it made me sad.
But it made me glad,
To shake his hand;
“Shake hands with a gentleman” is what he said to me,
Beautiful memories of a child of three.

Out of the darkness comes, more, memories,
Through the house, out the back past the almond trees.
Three sheds stood like sentries, eyes had no tears,
Brewing beer and fishing gear,
Wood turnings there and here,
Then he took my hand;
“Shake hands with a gentleman” is what he said to me,
Beautiful memories of a child of three.

As I travel through life’s, strange, mysteries,
The path I walk, is shaped by what was behind those trees.
The Man, the sheds, his beliefs, his abilities,
For there was no lock,
For which he had no keys.
I took his frail hand,
“Shake hands with a gentleman” is what I said to him,
Beautiful memories of a man of twenty three.

A Gathering of Kin

The Four came to the one,
The four whom he had sired.
For three timing was too late,
His life was all but expired.

In a room silent and bare,
He was alone no more.
Although body was never to respond,
His spirit lifted this I saw.

Like a gathering of kin,
Being with him to the end.
Not thinking of him as a father,
But comforting a long lost friend.

The Lone Wolf cries,
Out aloud in the night.
For it has lost a mate,
Stolen away on this silent night.

You walked from the hill,
Of the old rugged cross.
You did carry no burden,
For naught was lost.

Bag of Memories

The preparation for the journey was to be long,
Your pain and drawn out good-byes from the throng.
To help you on your travels I give you this song,
With this added baggage of memories to carry along.

Too many memories for such a short time,
Yet treasured and held close to this heart of mine.
To my darling soon to rest above,
The one real memory is that of our love.

Son and daughters of bond, not blood,
Send these memories of eternal love.
From the white rose to the white dove,
These words cannot convey the depth of their love.

Ever the more so, is love thicker than water,
These memories come from your eldest daughter.
The touch of your hand and soft, baby like skin
That reflected the love and purity that came from within.

Another remembers the smile upon your gentle face,
When you both danced the dance of waltz and grace.
And although she knows things will never be the same,
Whenever she dances, she’ll dance with you again.

Little words but of sincere trusting care,
Advice always given from a love so rare;
“Listen to me and you will far,
A close friend will teach you to drive in my car!”

“Carretse, Nonno ….Carretse, Nonno”, Caress me;
Grandchildren one and all cherish this memory.
And from those of us who joined in late,
Safe journey to you our father, companion, and mate.

The Garden An epic tale of all the wonderful creatures.

My favourite times writing poems, my mother and I have revamped this collection several times. Illustrating the majority of them.

The Wanderer's Wish

If I died in your arms,
Where would you lay me?
If I needed to be helped,
Would you come and save me?
All these questions that could be asked,
The answers, I need never know.
For they are locked away,
Only you know how high the roses will grow.

The colour of our roses,
Bloom in burgundy and blue,
Thorns of hatred are blunt;
Isn't this the way we grew?
A fragrance beyond all encounters,
Deep colours like blood flow,
Into our hearts, deepening this love;
Only you know, how high the roses will grow.

Foreword (The Garden)

Garden is a small shire, within the boundaries of the sinister Nothing. The people, both animated and mortal, keep their shire clean and beautiful. They also protect their shire from natural foes. Life is usually calm and tranquil in this serene shire, known as Garden.

Nothing's infamous tyrant, Natas, wants most, if not all, of Nothing under his total control. He usually leaves Garden alone. That is until he gets bored with his demonic means of entertainment.

The actual land mass, Nothing, is surrounded by a shallow void; namely "Nothing's Void". To the northern tip of Nothing, across it's Void, lies the Ancient Lands. It was there, were the Ancients would wander (and wonder) about. I say used to; as they were all wiped out by an unpleasant plague. The inhabitants of Nothing, were protected from this horrid plague by the sheer vastness of Nothing's Void.

In the following poems and letters, you will have the opportunity of getting to know most of the Inhabitants; most, not all. You will meet the Wanderer, who with the use of his TRIPPER (Time Rectifier in Parallel Places, Envelope Runner), visits the Ancients.

A fact, which you might find startling, is that Garden, Nothing, and their inhabitants actually exist. There is a piece of the Wanderer, in all of us. What's more, Nothing and Garden aren't that far away. Everything has it's good with it's bad.

Everywhere you look, there is a fragment of Nothing in what you see.

Nothing's Inhabitants pt 1

Here I stand in a garden,
Looking over a vastness of Nothing.
My friends stand close by,
Searching it's horizons for something.

We enjoy our own company,
As we know each other well.
Our domain is rarely challenged,
Excepting for the occasional cell.

Seasons change in favour for the foes,
Who march on Nothing's void.
Increasingly closer these villains approach,
Taking our sustenance into the void.

My friends shout, a shout of defiance,
Informing me of our Wandering Friend,
He visits on a weekly basis,
Delivering a blow to our foe's evil trend.

Nothing's Inhabitants pt 2

I too belong to this Garden,
To even the balance of Evil and Good.
My mission, humble as it is,
Is to infiltrate the roots of all good.

The Wanderer I must avoid,
As only he can destroy me.
His vigil is second to none,
Always ready with his army.

I slipped by unnoticed by the Wanderer,
Beginning my attack underground;
Taking by surprise the succulent beauties,
Trembling at the mere mention of my heartless sound.

What's this, the table is turned,
The killer about to be killed.
No mercy to be shown.
Once again, the mission is unfulfilled.

Nothing's Inhabitants pt 3

I have travelled beyond the Garden,
Beyond Nothing's shallow void;
Encountering foes beyond reckoning,
Of whom I have battled and destroyed.

The awe of my universe,
Stretches the limit of many a mind.
The splendour of it's magical beauty,
The wars and hatred of it's kind.

Of this Universe no place is better,
Than in the Garden with my friends.
They're unique, in colour and creed,
Personalities created in different blends.

I befriended, care, and protect,
These creatures of the Garden,
I hope, that you too,
Befriend your creatures, of the Garden.

First Apostle's Letter

Once again, the Traveller sets out on his endeavours. Tripping back in time, to walk amongst his ancestors; the Ancient Ones.
As he has done thousands of times before, the Traveller leaves Garden under the Tenders control. The Tenders are the Travellers companions, when he is in Garden; Garden's armed force and doctorate when he is not.

Although the Traveller only Trips for a short period of time, he is sometimes away for ages. Thus, the infidels, invaders, and plain old foe of nature are tempted to enter Garden's domain.

Inevitably, these unwanted beings infiltrate Garden's boundaries. Havoc breaks free. War finally erupts. Battles, both great and small, are fought with ferocious fury.

But never fear, all will be restored. The dead will live through their young. The conceived will be born. The invaders will be banished.

Yes, the balance of life will be returned.

How do I, know of all of this, you ask?

Is it not obvious that I am he? The God of gods Apostle. The Wanderer. Yes, I am he. The Traveller

Behind a Closed Door

The Wanderer prepared for his trip,
Not looking forward to his absence,
As on his travels throughout the barren void,
He can only think of Garden's fragrance.

The Garden, is never left unattended,
Although the Wanderer is behind a closed door.
He has never seen us at work,
Nor does he know, that we are called the Esor.

He knows of our quiet presence,
Freshening the basis of all growth.
The Wanderer and the Esor's alliance,
Is a powerful, solemn, unspoken oath.

We are one of the many Tenders,
Who care for the Garden's well being;
Keeping it fresh and vibrant,
Appeasing the great All Seeing.

Tranquil Lovers

We are the guardians of the air,
Brothers of the underground Esor.
We show ourselves, only to the believers,
Who see us work without flaw.

Infiltraters, like the Dihpa, are our prey,
Disappearing like songs unsung.
We are the lords of all sight,
Fierce and tireless are our young.

We, the Dribydal, use illusion,
As a means to confuse others,
Making them believe we're harmless,
The Garden's lonely, tranquil lovers.

What a wicked web we weave,
Enticing the Dihpa, completely unaware.
Our dragon kin young, just attack,
Leaving the Dihpa without a prayer.


In the Hierarchy of the Garden,
We the Seeb are one of the top.
Having the dual role of midwives,
Plus keeping guard on the new crop.

We work on a seasonal basis,
Whether the Traveller is here or not.
We actually assist in the fertilising,
In a carefree seasonal trot.

We are truly rewarded well,
For the special skills we use,
Either preparing the fertility ritual,
Or just giving the enemy the blues.

When the season is out,
We return home with our treasure.
The Traveller often pays a visit,
Joining in the Feast of Pleasure.

Battle Cry

We are the "All Ferocious of the Fierce,"
Warmongers, strategists, destroyers of evil.
Known only as the Niknogard,
Seen only in the guise of a humble weevil.

The Dihpa are seen as a succulent dessert,
Believe you me, we all have a sweet tooth.
Our motto, for the Royal Tenders Guard,
Is, "Destroy all evil, uphold honour and truth."

To hear the battle cry of the Niknogard,
Will deliver a blow to the heart;
To the good, 'tis the blow of uplifting;
To evil, 'tis the sound of Death's Cart.

"Destroy all evil, uphold honour and truth,
Sever the roots, burn it's liars,
Uproot all evil, and as for proof,
We will behead, Nothing's Squires."

A Proud Tender

In ancient times, they had there oddities,
Just as we have them with us now.
Their descendants changed in shapes and sizes,
The farmer forced to put away his plough.

I, am a proud descendant of the Emu,
A proud bird, who roamed the Ancient Lands.
The traits, of no flight remained though,
Imagine a Dragon, stuck fast on Garden's sands.

We did develop larger wings to compensate,
However, our huge bodies are too heavy.
But, this is only a physical restraint;
As the Great One, gave us the gift of Levee.

We are true dragons in all aspects,
Mystics in soul, in body we are Tenders.
We hardly ever, leave the borders of the Levee,
In the same way as the Ancient Pretenders.

Patience Master

Lying still, in a centre of silk,
Silk which has been spun with great care.
A millennium old tradition of craftsmanship,
Captures the Two Eyes, of the Fair.

A silk that can be woven,
A Fair woman's fine flowing dress,
Or used in high emotional states;
Where as it would be used to relieve stress.

The Dincara weave this silk,
Into incredible skyscapes of cumulus clouds,
Capturing the invaders insatiable curiosity;
Imprisoning their thoughts and souls, so proud.

The masters of Sight, are the Dincara,
The professors of sculpture and creation.
They are different in sizes and shapes,
Surpassed only by their shades of creations.

A Modest Tender

I was born to be gentle, yet powerful;
If only the Ancients knew, what I know.
For I am wiser than the Elder Ancients;
Considering I was conceived a million millenniums ago.

I am the youngest of my relations,
However, I have far more important duties.
They range from assisting the blind with light,
To giving enough warmth to the little cuties.

My closest friends, the Nooms, are also Tenders,
In the sense, that they carry out what I do.
Well Not as much, they can be quite lazy,
But I consider them as my nocturnal shoe.

Only one, is greater than myself, Emalf,
Being the Only One, who created me, you as well.
The Great One has many names and faces.
The God of gods, persuader of the infidel.

The Preacher

The Preacher, is what I am known as,
Although I rarely preach of the Great One.
I am a master of arms, subtle and harrowing,
Many a bloody, tireless battle I have won.

My reputation strikes fear into the infidel,
As they know of my savage battle skill.
Occasionally I will show them some mercy;
Mercy in the sense of a swift kill.

My elders, our fathers, the Prayer,
Are even more vicious in any fight.
Their intentions are for the larger prey,
Like the Sloth flying amongst the candle light.

Yes, we live a barbarous life,
Yet at times we are a serene choir.
But a warning must be heeded;
When angered we have the rage of fire.

Second Apostle's Letter

I am writing to you once again, hoping that you are taking care of yourself, and my companions. By now, most would have introduced themselves. At the same time, a lot might not have. Take for instance, the Cogil, who resemble the Ancient Fairy. They need to be encouraged by their own kind.

These shy Tenders are hardly ever seen. But I know within myself, that these beautiful Tenders actually exist.

The Great One, very rarely shows himself openly, but, it is very easy to talk to him. By merely talking to Emalf, or one of the Dribydal, or any of the Great One's friends, it will end up, that you were actually talking to him. As Emalf is the closest to the Only One, messages are conveyed quicker.

Each member of the Tender's Company has their own different dialect. Strange as it is, what you think they are saying, is in fact exactly what they are trying to tell you. It's just that you have been too ignorant, to listen to these thoughts before.

That's right!!! I remember now why I was writing to you.

My trip, is going to be longer than planned. I bumped into an old ancestor. Nathaniel Sirrah-Arkey M. Now, that is old. Anyway, all I ask of you, is if you can keep an eye on Garden's well being for me? Thanks.

Until we meet again, the Wanderer.

Descendant of the Dark

HAH !!! Do you think that you can keep me out? Yes, yes, you. The mere mortal that you are.

Well now, before you even think about closing your eyes, or looking elsewhere, think. Are the knees getting a bit weak? I, am going to grant you an interesting opportunity. And that is to be, that you shall meet and be introduced to my fellow assistants.

Since I'm in such a good mood, strange as it may be, I'll even release you. You may return back to that humble Garden if you so desire. It is there, if you wish to, that you may protect it's inferior beings. If you can!

A mortal! Hah, hah, hah! Has the Wanderer taken leave of his senses?


Take this, this imbecile to meet his destiny.

Ho Hum, it's hard at the top. I've done it again, haven't I? I've forgotten to introduce myself. Fancy that. But, then again, everyone knows that I'm Natas, Descendant of the Dark. Lord of the Infidel.

He Calls Me Sloth

The Master, he calls me Sloth,
He, he and everyone thinks that I'm dumb.
That is not at all true, it's a lie,
I'm intelligent, and what's more, I'm handsome.

The Master is very mean to me,
I mean to say, I am quite hairy;
Plus there is the advantage of not being legless.
But what he does to me is scary.

He tells me that I need a rest,
That I should cut down on a few things.
Anyway, I get myself a silk blanket,
An when I wake up, he's gone and given me wings.

My body needs the warmth of light;
The Master plays more tricks than anyone.
While I'm not looking, in the right direction,
He makes the warm light, as hot as the sun.

Brothers of Gub

I am a member, of the Brothers of Gub.
I, myself am a member of the lower order,
Being just a normal, humble Surtic;
Not even recognised as being a marauder.

One day, I'm going to be something;
Maybe even a Quinharle, or even a Faelminer.
I may even end up being , an Ecal Gub;
That promotion is a raise, that couldn't be finer.

They get the best jobs, and rewards.
Imagine, never again, being placed in the line;
The line of death, the confrontation of good.
Instead of drinking Emils, able to drink wine.

If only he would let me go,
Let me become one of my brothers,
Then, and only then will I sublet,
And show some respect, to the others.


I walk a very tender and fragile edge,
I have to keep a look out all the time.
If my vigil fails, for a slender moment,
I fall into the balance of a rhyme.

If the two lines have a common rhyme,
Then I am to be given the second chance.
But woe, if those lines fall by the wayside,
I'll be thrown in front of the predator's glance.

It's hard, having so many natural enemies,
Being considered as a succulent sweet.
It is cumbersome being one of the Dihpa,
Not even protected by Summer's harsh heat.

The only protection the Master granted,
Is being so small, and our weird shape.
We are grateful, for this gift of oversight,
But we have no means of an escape.


The ominous ground dragon, Wigrae;
Evil, psychic twin of the inferior Niknogard,
Do present myself for you to study, and compare.
A prerequisite, I wish for "no holds barred."

I am larger in size, both physical and mental,
The Niknogard doesn't even come close to me.
I am more ferocious and volatile,
All they can do is fall over and flee.

Yes, I am the largest and the best.
Yes, I am a humble, modest creature.
Put us together in a grand battle,
I'll come out as the best feature.

Oh, what a modest beauty I am,
You can't compare me to anyone.
Come, dance and dine with me,
Join in my great pleasant fun.

Meek of the Squadron

Welcome to the Divisional Aerial Field;
There are so many squadrons to see and greet.
They range from the Sloths to the Sijsads;
We, being the latter are the Assistants meek.

Most of the flying Assistants join forces,
Attacking in the same manner of fashion.
The way we attack is to remove the life force,
This is completed in a frenzied violent passion.

We the Sijsad consist mainly of infiltrates,
Performing in the art of the gracious spy.
We find the weaknesses and or strong points,
Finding out who can or can't fly.

It doesn't always work the way we would like;
The Tenders aren't partial to bribes,
Not through lack of trying to convince;
Tenders pick up all evil nasty vibes.


A quick brief on the rest of the Division.
There are the Feslii, Spaws, Truth Feslii.
These are the squadrons of Aerial Reconnaissance,
Who assist the Sijsad in their relentless pry.

Then there are the Fael Hoppers,
This squadron won't give up in any fight;
Where there's a will there is a way,
And by the way they pack a good bite.

The Takien are of the Minor Meek,
Small, but able to perform delicate jobs.
Most of these occupations are significant,
Disabling weak hearts leaving only their throbs.

There are others both large and small,
But they have already been broken apart;
To re-group into even more powerful sorties.
The sort of information to break the warmest heart.

Welcome to the Laboratory

Welcome to the laboratory of Raspitur,
Alchemist of the infamous Dark Master.
I create all the wonderful potions,
Either destroying growth or making faster.

Creator of all diseases and all vermin,
No job is too big nor is it too small.
All concoctions are to be used with care,
Caring to see who's going to fall.

Wherever I wander in this world,
I leave behind a unique trademark.
It's oddity lies in it's devastation,
Left outside the Garden's outer arc.

Well that's all from me anyway.
You will get to know the rest.
The Master has instructed me,
To send you back to wherever is best.


Tension is beginning to mount,
Having to wait for the inevitable;
Pressure is at a breaking point,
The Garden's fate is undecideable.

Everyone, knows that it is going to happen,
It's just that no one, knows when.
Why, is it starting over again?
The fate of now is probably then.

Minds, running uncontrollably loose;
Anxieties, pumping adrenaline at a phenomenal rate.
Heart is your mouth and so is your stomach,
Nerves unable to contemplate a changing fate.

Memories flood into your mind and soul,
Your throat swells with an emotional lump.
You become aware that you've been shaking;
Your heart no longer beats, it's a persistent thump.

Guidance (A letter from Emalf)

Hi! Doesn't look good, does it?

The Great One, has given me this bitter job. He has given it to me for one reason; that being, whatever happens to Garden, I will still be here. Maybe, just maybe, you'll protect me from the loneliness. The job, as much as I don't want it, is to inform you of the matters at hand. No offence, it's not you, it's the events that I have been told about. They have already commenced.

I've been introduced before. Now it's time to get to know each other a bit better. I'm Emalf, and you are . . . Come on, don't be shy, after all, we may be the only two left. I'd prefer to be friends, instead of two beings, who won't communicate.

There might still be time. I've contacted the Wanderer. He's received the message, but, well, you don't want to know. Well! Whilst staying with his ancestor, his TRIPPER was stolen. Thieves were everywhere in the Ancient days. I did warn him about that.

The Great One, has chosen you, to protect his favourite realm. I have faith in all of His decisions, and in you.

For now, I'll let you think. Guard Garden to the best of your ability. If you ever need guidance and moral support, just look up. You'll find me. I'm always here.


Battle of Lorac

This is where it all started.
A 'modest' Assistant, met some Tenders in Lorac;
A squad of Niknogard were in an Ela House,
When the Wigrae started an all out attack.

The Niknogard were considerably outnumbered;
Everything, was in the favour of the Wigrae.
They had the numbers, and reinforcements.
They had planned everything for this day.

Lorac, is far from civilised Garden;
The squad were on a routine border patrol.
This battle was to be the shortest;
The squads name, to be entered into the War's Scroll.

The Wigrae had proven their point;
In this flurry, they were the largest and best.
As for now they will keep,
Whilst we lay our beloved to an unending rest.


Never before has so many joined forces:
The underground Tenders, the Aerial Acrobats,
The Fey, and their Seen Brothers, old and young.
An alliance formed, with the Mythical Cats.

The Mystical Panther broke free,
His anger pointed toward the Descendant.
Then, almost out of no where, Rexoch appeared;
The great Mystic, holder of the Oracle Pendant.

All these, and ever so more,
Made alliances, pacts, and blood ties.
The atmosphere of this coming together,
United friendship shining in everyone's eyes.

The meek, rubbing shoulders with the great,
The great associating with the meek.
Rexoch struck his staff immediately lighting the sky,
Proclaiming that we will be rid of Dark's reek.


All these great forces have united themselves,
Yet they are unorganised, but ready.
The Wanderer is absent, they need a leader,
Whose nerves are rock hard and steady.

Who will lead this deserving cause?
Who will co-ordinate the battles to come?
Who can cope with the pressures?
Who is five steps ahead of everyone?

When is this person going to speak up?
Not even Rexoch can conjure up such a person.
But Rexoch will handle all communications,
He will be the aide for this person.

Wait! I hear a strangers voice calling.
You will accept, Rexoch will be pleased.
Understand communications are going to be difficult,
But at last, vengeance can finally be released.

Battle of the Heart

The first major battle is fought,
Within all and every Tender's heart.
The rage has to be controlled,
The torment and anger held apart.

These emotions have to be channelled,
Not to be let loose on a wild rampage.
Rexoch decided to appoint Kindaal,
To hold the leash of this enormous rage.

Kindaal is now General of the Tender,
Although he was formerly of the Fair.
His spirit is unbreakable and sincere,
Common Tender think that he walks upon air.

He has already organised the united masses,
Formed them into Battalions and Divisions.
He has chosen the best Captains for the Tender;
The best strategists for the coming missions.


Spies have informed Kindaal of invading Wigrae;
The whole entire force of the Wigrae.
Kindaal has shown compassion in asking for the Niknogard.
It is here that together, they planned V-Day.

Vengeance Day was to go down in history:
Angel Mountain and the sun about to shine.
The Wigrae and Niknogard on opposing sides.
The Wigrae encountered the sun's rays and became blind.

Their vision was restored to meet the battle,
With this the Niknogard commenced their battle cry.
The numbers were more even in this fight,
Except that more Wigrae were going to die.

Casualties resulted, heavily on both sides,
The Wigrae's numbers deteriorated rapidly.
Their true colours started to show,
They began a retreat rather haphazardly.

Bull Horn

The Niknogard charged at double time,
Forming the famous formation, the Bull Horn.
The Wigrae became aware of their pursuit,
Thus they planned a counter attack on the second dawn.

The Bull Horn formation is designed well;
Consisting of two major flanks and a front.
When the front encounters the enemy,
The flanks then fold, creating a massive stunt.

The enemy is surrounded by the Bull Horn,
They are at the mercy of their captors.
There is no escape from this deadly weapon,
The captured therefore have to endure their foes rapture.

So it happened to the Wigrae's main force,
Surrounded, from then on they were all killed.
That is except one, who was released,
To inform his master, who won't be thrilled.

Kindaal's Lure

The sole surviving Wigrae returned,
To the Descendant of the Dark's hiding place.
Although the Wigrae's life was spared,
He had endured a sadistic chase.

The torment and trauma was horrendous,
So much so that the Wigrae had begged for his death.
The Niknogard would have willing obliged,
Except that he was the only one left.

The Wigrae was directed to Natas's disfigured feet,
It is here that the Wigrae told of his ordeal.
Natas didn't pay any attention to the details;
His pride was severed and shall never heal.

Immediate actions were taken in preparation,
For a retaliatory war, not at all pure.
Natas's anger had taken control over his rationing,
Unaware that he had fallen prone to Kindaal's lure.


Kindaal had guessed Natas was going to be mad,
So mad that he would release the Squadron.
Kindaal couldn't have predicted it any better,
Natas even had Raspitur slaving over his cauldron.

The idea behind Kindaal's master plan,
Was that Natas would forget about his ground force;
Relying mainly on his so called Aerialists.
Kindaal patiently waited for Natas to endorse.

The Preachers are going to remain with the Seeb,
Where they will protect Garden to the utmost.
A small force of Tender will attack Ketpoc;
Natas's main fortress which lies on the east coast.

With Ketpoc under total Tender control,
Natas's ground forces would have no base.
It wouldn't be long before they're useless to Natas;
Kindaal could then march upon Mephisot at a faster pace.

Fall of Ketpoc

It wasn't long before the skies were alight,
With a spectacular display of many a dog fight.
The sky was full of flying Tender and Assistant;
So full you couldn't possibly fly a kite.

Natas swallowed the bait, hook, line, and sinker;
Unaware that the Dribydal had taken an important passage.
The armed Esors and Mystic Dragons soon followed;
Together they overpowered Ketpoc's main Sage.

This turned out to be a silent take-over,
As Kindaal had hoped it would be so.
The captured were placed in dank dungeons,
To squander time on their new found woe.

Yes Ketpoc fell upon a silent fate,
Natas is still oblivious to what has occurred.
One of his main arteries is destroyed.
Maybe he'll never know where he erred.

Path of the Highlands (A Letter from Emalf)

Revenge is sweet, so they tell me. I felt a rush of fear, exploding in every heart and soul of the Niknogard. Yet, fear is an added edge when mixed with vengeance.
So it happened, the Wigrae faced a powerful vendetta. Natas had lost his cool, and in blind rage released his squadrons. They were poorly organised, thus their plight with the Seeb and Preachers was short lived. Natas's Squadron was dealt a heavy blow.
A small band of Dribydal managed to take Iron Passage, by complete surprise. The few Surtics that guarded the passage were shown no quarter.
This gave another band of Esors and Dragons, an easy passage to invade Ketpoc. Ketpoc fell silently, within moments of the invasion. Kindaal, now intends to use Ketpoc, as his lower base for his east flank.
Kindaal made Ferral Second in Charge. Ferral, a member of the Dincara, will lead a force of Dincara, Misty and Antis up along the west coast.
Ferral chose six delegates from the eight tribes of Dincara. Kindaal suggested to Ferral it would be wise to incorporate Misty, of the Cogil, and Antis, being of the Elder Preachers, into his band.
Together, this mob marched on to Ketpoc where they were to meet up with the remaining members of this small band. They were Tyne and Valen, who belonged to the Esor branch of Tenders. This contingent of Tender were going to be sung of, from this day forward. This was the initial coming together of the 'Band of Eleven'.
The Eleven were to scout and ensure the safety of the following major assault. A large force of Tender. In fact the Eleven make a so called 'path of the Highlands'.
Together, you and I, will follow the Eleven and the Tender along the Highlands on the east coast. Occasionally, Runners will inform us of Kindaal's actions in the Marshlands. In turn, the Runner will tell Kindaal of our progress.

Remember, I'm always here, Emalf.

Eleven's Gathering

Tyne and Valen waited eagerly, patiently,
They could see the other nine on the rise.
Soon the Eleven were to become as one;
Wiser, stronger, bonded through spiritual ties.

There's; Ferral of the Elite, Leader of the Eleven.
Arak of the Soeh, Master at Arms.
Sil of the Abe, Collector of Long Sight.
Misty of the Cogil, Teller of the Psalms.

Then there's; Pilot of the Sky, Antis of the Elder Preacher.
First Weaver of Silk, Tash of the Nish.
Second Weaver of Silk, Job of the Inco.
Spinner of the Trap, Aaro of the Miche.

Last but not least;
Bo of the Sest, Strategist for the Eleven.
Tyne of the Esor, Master of the Underground.
Valen of the Esor, Artist of Enticement.
Hell has no fury, now that these hearts are bound.

Arriving Ritual

Rexoch made a grand appearance in Ketpoc,
Arriving in a white robe upon a white Unicorn.
He rode the Ancient mythical steed like a Knight,
As he wished to be in Ketpoc before the dawn.

He prepared himself for the Bonding Ritual;
Each individual member of the Eleven was to die.
A death which cleanses both soul and mind,
Then together they are resurrected from this high.

Later that day after the Bonding Ritual,
The People of Ketpoc commenced the celebration;
Which was given for the bonded Eleven's benefit,
Commending their complete and successful transformation.

On the outside the Eleven were the same,
Appearance and their willingness to join in a fight.
But their is a difference in their once opaque eyes;
They can now speak without speaking, yes insight


Misty rides upon Antis's great shoulders,
Who hovers above his brothers formation.
She keeps him intrigued and amused,
With witty, old, needless information.

Ferral is at the point of the arrow head,
Sussing out anything that looks suspicious.
Sil is on his left, Arak is on his right,
Both imagine that anything that is edible, is delicious.

Surviving on the land that surrounds them,
The Eleven make fast progress towards the ranges.
From the arid ranges onto the Highlands,
Where the vegetation and terrain rapidly changes.

It is here that Tash and Job do what's best;
Weaving silk into long lengths of rope.
Misty and Antis have a good old laugh,
While they watch the others climb and grope.


Xenophobia rages throughout the Highlands,
Much like a sinister, rabid disease.
News of the Eleven had swept like wildfire,
Scared Assistants running away upon their knees.

They would take one look at Antis,
Thinking of him as nothing but a stray.
But all of a sudden they see that Ferral,
Sil, Arak, and the rest want to play.

The Eleven play a game of odds,
They bet on the outcome of the next fight.
That is to say how many opponents run,
And how many stand up from fright.

All the wayward Assistants make for safety,
Which they think lies in the Lowlands.
They are surprisingly led to their imprisonment,
Escorted by a branch of gentle Tender hands.


The Eleven broke camp, all was quiet.
The stillness matched it's brother, the dark.
Eerie, but the Eleven enjoyed their rest,
That was until Zech, the Zealot, decided to park.

A Zealot, is an Assistant with a bad reputation,
They persistently squawk about Natas's wisdom.
This Zealot, Zech, has got a big problem,
He is about six castles short of a small kingdom.

Zech sat by the Eleven's warming fire,
Doing nothing but talk, talk, talk.
It wasn't until he noticed Misty,
That he knew he had ended his casual walk.

It was good to know that he still talked,
He will keep the guards at Ketpoc amused.
Ketpoc is forever increasing in the number of captives;
But they are kept well, never mistreated or abused.


The quietude, was far too quiet,
Not unlike the calm before the storm.
Something was wrong, horribly wrong,
They waited, to endure this unseen scorn.

All of a sudden all hell broke free,
The tempest raged with a mind of it's own.
Great old tress came crashing down around them,
They could hear others in the distance, groan.

The skies were alive with bright white snakes,
Slithering towards and striking at anything.
Seas of the sky had broken their banks,
Sending torrents down upon the Eleven's ring.

The Eleven were at the mercy of this entity,
As it's tongue lashed out continuously.
Then, as it arrived it disappeared,
Leaving it's destruction for all to see.

Saracere’s Burning

The tempest’s bright white snakes had bitten Saracere,
In turn, the Assistant’s hidden fortress was ablaze.
Who says good things don’t come from bad,
Or that nights can’t turn into days.

The blaze had destroyed the thick foliage,
That concealed Saracere’s now blackened walls.
If it wasn’t for the tempest’s violent actions,
The Eleven would not have seen the ominous Ghouls.

The Ghouls are Natas’s masters of ambush,
They are said to have come from the Ancient Lands.
Ghouls sneak up from behind their unwitting prey,
Attacking in vile and feverish bands.

Today wasn’t their day, no not at all,
They had lost their element of surprise.
The Eleven conquered Saracere in simplicity,
As the tempest had opened their blind eyes.

Refuge (A letter from Emalf)

Well, the Eleven have broken camp, as have the force of Tender. Stroke of luck with the tempest, and Saracere. Maybe, the Only One has his hand in this after all.
Kindaal's Runner, has finally caught up with us. He tells me, of how Kindaal's force have encountered no Assistants, as of yet. Their main worry is all the swamp and marsh insects. If the Assistants don't get them, the insects will eat them alive.
Kindaal has progressed as far as the Isle of the Inner Soat. This is the first piece of dry land, that they have come across since they first entered the Marsh Lands. Surprisingly enough, the insect life is at a minimum on the Isle. Their Company, is going to set up camp, and recuperate for a couple of days.
The Runner also tells, that on his journey across the Between, there was no sign of any Assistants whatsoever. This is not hard to believe. After all, the only water is a mirage of a vast sea. The dunes, are on the move, constantly. Only the experienced, ever cross it, and a lot of them even find it quite difficult. To set up a base, is nigh on bordering the impossible.
We have given the Runner, Hasten, and ourselves refuge, within the walls of Saracere. What an evil and overpowering place. We needn't worry about any Ghouls. The Eleven eliminated the Ghouls that the tempest's fire missed.
I've asked Hasten, when he is ready, to tell Kindaal of our progress. I also took the liberty of asking Hasten to return with Kindaal's orders, as soon as possible.
As for now, we can all do with some rest. Keshna (Cogils farewell)


Hasten's Return

It is nice of the Tender and the Eleven,
To give me food, and water for the coming trip.
It won't be long before it starts happening,
When illusion and insanity tend to get a grip.

You need a strong mind when you go Between,
It also helps if you can control your imagination.
The mirages there, are so much larger than life;
They can kill and resurrect, without hesitation.

We rarely have to cross the Between,
But when it is at hand, we are vital;
Messengers to the leaders, conveyors of orders.
It's relieving, that Between is calmest at nightfall.

But for now I need much needed, valuable rest,
I have to be completely aware, crossing Between.
My body has to be physically strong;
My mind, has to be clean and keen.

Shadow Creature

Why, does Natas always send me out here?
Nothing ever happens, nothing is ever alive.
Why, does he always send me out here?
I can't help it if I'm the only one left alive.

He has punished me enough, quite enough,
He has stripped away my great self esteem.
Now all I do, is wander this horrid Between;
Once a Wigrae, now a Shadow Creature called Zeme.

Ever since the Niknogard killed my brethren,
I've lost all strength,

Discovery and Denial

"Well, well, well. What have we here? Zeme has finally gone and done something right. Hard to believe, isn't it Zeme?"
Zeme remained deafly quiet, with the still unconscious Hasten at his feet.
"What's the matter, Zeme! Devil gone and got your tongue?" Natas broke into a sadistic laugh. "Oh well, Zeme! I have plans for you. On your way back to the Between, drop in and see Raspitur."
Unbeknownst to Zeme, Raspitur has created a female Wigrae. Zeme was destined to go back to the Between, as a breeder.
"Before you go, Zeme; wake this Runner."
Zeme unlocked Hasten's legs, which relieved the pain in Hasten's mind. Hasten slowly came out of his drifting blackness.
"So, the swift little boy wakes. Nice to see, that you dropped in. Hmnn, what have you got to tell me little one?"
Hasten, still didn't know what had happened. Why it happened. Where he was. And, who this vile half person is. Then all of a sudden, it dawned upon him. He was within the walls of Mephisot.
"Come on little man. Tell me what's going on."
All Hasten remembered, was the Three Ancient Monkeys; Hear No, See No, Speak No Evil.
"Listen! Young fool. Something is happening, otherwise you wouldn't be walking all over my, MY Between!!!"
Hasten had consciously decided, to become all of the Ancient Monkeys.
"I can see, that I'm going to get absolutely nothing, out of you. But this much I do know; something is alive south of Mephisot."
"As for you, fool, say good-bye to your beloved Garden."
Hasten was placed in the Catacombs of Mephisot. An underground maze of dungeons. They say, that the only escape from the Catacombs is death. Even then, your spirit may well be still entombed.
Natas has set about getting information on what is stirring in other parts of Nothing.

Evil Wisdom

They came from crook and cranny,
Within and around the monstrous Two Towers.
Natas was speaking words of evil wisdom,
Upon the crowd that had gathered in the last few hours.

All forms and shapes of Assistants came to Mephisot,
Forming a large army at the base of it's walls.
They continued to flock for numerous hours,
Shouting answers in unison to Natas's war calls.

Sicta and Verda were made Bosses of the Flyers.
Gnal and Mian were made Bosses of the ground forces.
Natas started dividing both sets into two parts,
Giving each Boss their own strategic course.

Very soon the Bosses were to go on the move,
Taking their followers on a definite course of action.
Natas had all the time in the millennium,
To sit down and laugh at Kindaals reaction.

East Coast ( Ferral's Thoughts )

We've been waiting for Hasten's return,
As he should have returned by now.
Maybe, he's still resting up with Kindaal;
Maybe, he's only away by an hour.

Since he's been gone, things have been stirring.
I think that we are awfully close to the Towers,
Because the fires and chanting are alive;
I don't know if they are Natas's or ours.

I sent a scout out to confirm my thoughts.
He returned to tell me of the Assistant's retreat;
How they were running scared from something,
Unaware of what, he couldn't see through Between's heat.

I do wish Hasten would speed things up,
So I could attack, instead of this dreary wait.
I so wish, Hasten would give me Kindaal's orders,
So that I could seal Natas's deserved fate.

West Coast ( Kindaal's Thoughts )

Where's the Runner, he's been gone too long?
I sent him out to report on how Ferral is going.
Then again, he may be on his way now.
One thing is for sure, my temper is growing.

My patience was at it's tethers end,
So I sent out another Runner on the third day.
The second Runner was only gone for the night,
When he came back, this was all he could say.

"I looked all over the Between Kindaal,
To see nothing, except it's heat haze.
I climbed the Highlands, to see a disturbance,
It looked like the Two Towers were ablaze."

It seems to me that Ferral has progressed well,
Better than I had possibly thought.
Well, time to make a move forwards,
To help Ferral on his fantastic haunt.


The Dihpa have scoured the countryside,
They have rewarded me, with what I want to know.
A force on the East Coast, another on the West;
Now I can get on with this, the ultimate show.

Raspitur is creating some new Shadow creatures,
But I can't wait for them to be conceived.
I have learnt from previous mistakes with Garden,
Personally a different goal will be achieved.

I've selected the best of my numerous mobs,
They will soon be on surprise attacks.
I will use them as a diversion for the others,
Whom have renamed themselves as the Maniax.

The Maniax comprise of Shadow Creatures,
All remaining Sorties, Gubs, and many more.
They, like me, bear an insatiable hunger,
For the forthcoming blood, sweat, and gore.

Higher and Hire

Sicta is to lead, Flying Maniax to the East;
Gnal will control the Maniax following the Flyers.
They will gather other Assistants on their way;
Also to be joined by more, that Natas hires.

Verda will lead Flying Maniax to the West,
Mian will control the Maniax following these Flyers.
Together they will activate the surprise attacks,
Continuing to attack, even when the Tender tires.

My fantastic Wigrae are finally to be avenged,
Raspitur is to set each Niknogard on fire.
I have planned everything to the last detail,
I have even arranged a victory choir.

This is going to be my greatest design,
I will watch it from my tallest spire.
Having now released all the Maniax and Bosses,
Vengeance will continually rise higher, and higher.

Young and Old

This is the time, Natas waited so patiently for,
The concealed story in the Song, is finally told.
Although Ferral and Kindaal won't know beforehand,
They will know it's on for young and old.

Clashes, conceived from clashes.
Death, born out of the slain.
Bloods, forming into pools of lava.
Sanity, swallowed up by the insane.

The Assistants fell upon the Tenders,
Like the tempest did fall upon the Eleven.
All fallen beings, finding immortality,
In their own individual hell, or heaven.

The beast is released, in full force,
No preference, for it devours old and young.
The foretold song, of the final conflict,
In full glory, is now being sung.

Third Apostle's Letter

It's great to be back, amongst my finest companions. It was good to meet and converse with Nathaniel. But "there's no place like home." So the Ancient saying goes.
It seems awfully, quiet. I know, that the Ancient Lands are both hectic and fast. I also know, that I have been gone for quite a while. No thanks to the TRIPPER. But never, have I seen Garden, so, still.
Where are all my finicky friends?
Never, have they forgotten to make a fuss about my travels. They are constantly curious of the Ancient Lands.
Never, before has Garden been so, eerie.
Why does it seem so, lifeless?
Even Emalf doesn't seem to pay heed, to my persistent cries. Cries for answers.
Will someone, please inform me, of these things?

****** ******* ******* ******* *******

So. It couldn't be avoided. You did your utmost. The damage is done. There is always, hope. There is still a chance, that all is not at an end.
You say that this all happened two turnings ago. Then there's a slim chance, that there are still survivors, both Tender and Assistant.
Without having to confirm it, I would say that Natas has disappeared deep within Mephisot's Catacombs. Unable to comprehend this catastrophe. The enormity of it all. His downfall.
The Songs, they were true in what they spoke.
Come, let us search, for our fallen.

Citizen, the Traveller.


It has happened once again, as it has done every millennium or so. The Great One, has means in his ways. These wars, of total annihilation, act as a cleansing process.
In short, the Song stated that a certain tribes bravado, would cause an uproar. From there, war would eventuate. As we can see, the Song was indeed true.
Citizen returned to find his friends, all but gone. He searched for any surviving Tender, or Assistants. He found a few, here and there.
Whilst looking for his friends, the Great One revealed himself to Citizen. It was there, that the Great One told, and sang, to Citizen the New Song.
So, out of fire and ice, Nothing's inhabitants are to be rekindled. As they strengthen in numbers, so will the prophecy come to light in the New Song.
Hasten found his way out of Mephisot's Catacombs. He, like Citizen, was confronted with a new land, and life.
Together, they will regroup, and rebuild Garden. The Assistants will follow their noses, back to Mephisot.
Nothing's activities, for now, are at a dull. But they will pick up in time, of that I am sure.
I was too emotional to explain to Citizen, what had happened. He will learn, and so will the others, as they travel along life's new highway.
Remember, in heart and soul, that no matter where you are, I will always be here. For guidance, companionship, and to enlighten your darkness.

Yours Eternally

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