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Schörde
My chords become swordsTiny little bladesFloating around in the airThey’re made out of pure soundDirected towards my enemiesWhich come at me in hordesI point and I prayI get on my kneesI plead with the lordNot to be seizedThe lord is not pleasedBut he grants my requestSo off with my headAnd now I can restFor I
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Merry Shiftmas and a Flappy New Year
The author discusses the concept of higher dimensional versions of ourselves that communicate through universal languages like math and music. Everything in existence aligns periodically, leading to a moment of pure chaos and then connectivity. The author further explores the randomness of life, comparing it to a flowing river where outcomes are unpredictable, and suggests…
McDream's Poetry 