From the Inkwell, From the Vein.....

Tears choked Swallowed pain Heart's death Sorrow's gain Bitter dregs sucked through pursed and dry-chapped lips Do little to ease A thirst so great drawing cheeks gaunt and cavernous Nothing can appease Breaths gasped Mind lost Soul's shaken Vanity's cost Tainted bread gnashed with chipped and broken tooth Fills not the void A hunger never sated, consumed even as it consumes Only to destroy                                                                                                                                                                 ...

Fight the longings deep within, Never let the innocence win. Search your heart for the pain's demand, It's the only feeling you'll understand. Why take the simple life, of hope, of joy? These are but dreams you aim to destroy. The only direction you choose for your life, Is the comforting, cobbled path of strife. It's easier, isn't it, just to believe, That any love that comes to you, will just leave? And the satisfying existence that you seek, Is just one argument outside your reach. Don't look toward the sunnier days, Don't search out the easier ways. Know these words as the truth, absolute; Happiness ain't meant for the likes of you.                                                                                         ...

As a teenager, I often found refuge in the world literature (mostly fantasy and mystery---something about the unknown or a puzzle kept me interested). Once the world of books opened up for me, there was nothing I found that quite matched the pleasure I derived from falling into those worlds and allowing them to consume me...completely. And, though I've read widely across genres (though, pointedly NOT the romantic and western genres), there have only been a couple of authors whose works I continue to re-read to this day..... namely: this man: and, this man: Though Doyle and Tolkien weren't exactly contemporaries, the years of their lives did overlap... Doyle (1859-1930), Tolkien (1892-1973). The question of whether or not they knew each other still plagues me--- Doyle, a Scottish physician turned writer and Tolkien, an English writer turned professor--- separately, changed the world of literature in their own unique ways, imagine what they would/could have d...

Like rain trickling through the sediment, broken stones, broken minutes, broken bones. The days pass, creeping slowly onward, left alone, leaving shadows, left unknown. No respite from the continuing cycle, once more, once again, once endured. That holds the fragile, timid soul of man, stands poor, standing naked, stands unsure.                                                                                                               ---e.a.s. demers