Swamps of Sadness for adults

Etherith
Boock II
The Resume Of Dreams;
A Courage Standard To Hates Powers Infinate

Chapter I
Chant I The Music That The Swamp Breathed


Bleak now Bleak was the putrid sobriety of these swamps
over the earth and these deepest realms were the arts in sulphuric oblivion damps
the Divine Cat Demon so Precious toiled her feet through these fields of everlasting Chasms
WHere reality indeed knew no color or word but forms gently in orgasms
here her bats guides in the distance to her impossible quest may flee
and all her fellow demons would she have left behind her to their deaths i tell thee
neverending horrors and anguish the passing of all hers and mine our kin
the havoc and wreckage of a innumerable of mankinds one sin
that the terrors of the woe of elves vampires and angels here around these realms
in the in between of Ethereeen the wall guarded by this ferocious winged dog beast
hovered freely now after Anaehtheanas passage to the realm chastid maidens of the East
soon the crocodiles out of which mated the astral unions kin and companions to be balm'd
had her one sword to staple in the cowardice a heart on the coast
of epwhvrehnestehellesse, in the temple of where a princess heart for a princess once to roast
had she this ordeal needed, to complete the virtue and the hearts of all these
of crocodiles born muse from the cathedral floors pits dug vomitted egg from maidens
now all needed be the weak and frail of this one demons epiphany a zeal and completion of her quest
a might legion of the most sinister, feline raiders, a zeal to them then in their turn, for which none too few a ocean of blood be less'd

ETHERITH, BOOCK II THE RESUME OF DREAMS

The music That the swam Breathed, was ahead of The demon apherhehan devhenyiinn axathatha
She ventured for the Staff of Hethreds Power, once crafted by the Evenhelveth most luxuriously equipped craftsman and Platinum wielders. If she Got that staff, and Coursed it to Ellhe travelling spirit from all heights north to all depths south, THen Ellhe could restore Reality once more as Dream. Unheard of, Unbereft, Unbillical.
So soon as these two loveress would meet, princesses of demons both they were
so hath the sea of reality enough endured and Ethereeen walls would shatter as crystals
TOgether to surrender the Holy Staff of Hethred. Hethreds hate and a fractal on her sacred arms of power. A fractal so skillfull and meticulous, with a shard of the first fractal ever made In Hell.
'This stress, that overlays the lands, and somberes the hearts like the silver of a frost"
This path She will venture is apart of time space and causality, She nor anyone finds this path, as music, this path finds us, and at the same time it takes us through such an alternate gateway our forewarned sisters of the emulant lightnings did not yet dream possible with their still poor theories and of which melancholies were still in Infancy. We have matured so much, we have seized Astral anxious but at the same time exhilerating broodings. Let us then dramatically overturn these wastelands and not have this world lost to the meekherrs their petty chess games all in tatters, their alchemy glowing warm with the impotence of their insights?! And the meekherrs likewise, devouring trivial matters like pigs to devestate the ecology. What do we need? A sword, a tunic, a lot less heat, a cold wind, a lot less housing, a lot less of these caterpillars in their steel parades. THIS CAN NOT STAND!! LETS WAGE WAR AND CAST OUT THE MEEKHERRS TO AHMAN AND MAHRAS. We are STRONG in this dimension for it teaches us this world needs OUR... BEAUTY!! NOT THEIR... DEVOURINGS!! Who cares if they do not like us? Is not their world also created by those that ruined the esthetics? Did n't Cohrherhesthe stand before the academies in a special temple he had built for himself? Look at me look at me??? Did n't aedchemheeerph create a Mekka? Alas, what are we to do. Our Swords and our music is indeed to glorious to waste it on their decrepid ill born carcasses. What to do? I don't know. I redesigned the world. I solved all the issues surrounding these vast mountainsides, the oceans the trees. Anyone wants it? I leave it to this realm. She has designs, She has Mehres to compose for a new reality, of temples, cathedrals, castles, all self sustaining, with artisan windmills for energy, winter gardens, markets in gothic with thrones, eiffhell tower trains, fish pools to releave the ocean. Anyone? Anyone to fight with Her? She would soon think Her loneliness, if She could go by that. She could make something similar. Then these shimmering twilightean magnificent crafts as they roll as if a first wave upon the beach of the vast swamplands before which she stands. These hymns, for the most exhausting journey ever devised, If anything was haunting it was these to idleness hinting serenades, plucking at you, feasting on ones soul.
She will just be a new fantasy tale in stead of a writing treating of ideals, let us not as humans fight, but as the weeping of angels be triumphant in the magick in our corpses. Already seeps these hellish dissapointments and heavens apocalyps miseries.
So as the Sirens of the Oceans and the Oceans died for Aeylyeaelle, So did the Swams here before her grew Sad before her, because of her, this Demonesse. With a gasping breath overtaken in such grief and woe she took her first strides!!

She thinks now of Aeylyeaelle's stories an allegory, a myth of a hollow life, a life bleeding and not lived. Her fragmented character in all vampiric, elvish and angelic nuance, and lost in those. These nuances like a haze. A deep mist. "The oceans die for me as no one listens and I am the only one who wants to weep and save them. The oceans and me do not listen to meekherr, the oceans die for me and i weep for them, their curses are a silence like my own, and my silence is a curse that the meekherr will as yet walk into. My revenge as silently plotted as my footsteps in these Isolated Temple Realms of the Heart Of Etherith. WHere the Three first lines of Etherith are Written. In stone, gilded with hyeroglyphics and art nouveau, and the maiden Goddess of the ancients, primordial, and immaculate princesses, who once began these footsteps, and fallen so sure as they would arise once more.
Here it starts the perpetual lament of discouragement, with the storms of uselessness above obscuring any light. Earie as it is the voices begin to sing such a sweet disastruous song?! Everything is useless it begins, while she starts to observe the first beauties sinking in this mud, the first immaculate artworks. You will never get anywhere, handsome ideas but you will never get anywhere. If you slit your throath i would n't mind right? Everyone cares only about francs and dukates and florins another voice started chanting. Here goes this ocean of Death of everything. If mankind would die it 'd be too bad would n't it? All that is a dismay and a breach of a wonderfull conversation to have had do these muses sing. "If i don't make it wi would n't mind either right? The disaster of spirituality and a moment of future in these terribly terrible songs. I understand, BUT, i'm with you in your story. BUT... Discouragement, ill will a new level of apathy. And she had only walked a couple of lengths?!!! Owh we are parasites on beauty? It continued?! Owh a leven of conformism is part of society. All to leave it as is, the swamps of the death of dreams and arts. Here an ocean before her, to retreive dreams to the world...
Already so soon in this hymn to disaster and bad endings the choirs of poison kicked in. Owh you have to be laughing at me on said with snide and indignation. Owh are you treating me like a dog? Another one threatened. Here were the indignant choirs and the fools arrogant choirs now. The symphony had not even started?!
Owh they are just pretty pictures another symphony soon whirled.
So soon she had enough and she was fighting, and as she was the most brilliant poetesse she uttered a line so magnificent and wonderfull. But this does n't help matters. These thoughts if only they crept dorment into your soul the spirits would find it and leach into it. "Your are a failed artist perhaps they think" they went. "They are just imagery again a more etherical symphony whirled again." 99 minutes of this now. And not for 999 minutes and she would be reaching the first cliffside painted "Its just imagery." These spirits were hollow she noticed, they gratified themselves in it to discourage and hollowed themselves out more in return.