The Muse, The Choir, The Dark Song.

At one time I knew all sorts, from differing worlds from the many ports. Some were kind, and some were mean, others very different from how they seemed. They told of places strange indeed, from places where the land did bleed, to those without words for the things they have seen. They offered inspiration, a kind of muse, though, some, some darker ones sung a different tune.

Those dark seeds told of awful deeds, they sung of things meant never to be. I knew them false friends for all the truth in their tune, their words would bring no joy, only my end all too soon. Yet still I learned that woeful song they knew, the one that sounds like broken noise until you decide to join it to. Empty in heart, and heavy in soul, their words made no sense in the chaos they offered, yet in that I found the peace I’d sought though I carry out no orders, no wicked deeds. Instead I share what I see, I share that song, that horrible, wondrous thing, with all with eyes to hear and the ears to see.

I still hear those bright singers at time, those old friends of mine, yet more often than not I hear that dark choir, that awful broken thing. That company of souls to blackened to be yet to dark to cease that blessed suffering. They offer reprieve, from order and from pain, from that endless cycle of being, of existing, that drive to simply gain. There is however, darker things, different types of pain, things that make no sense, creatures that should never see the light of a human mind, things that existence itself tries to deny.


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