Inside of the letter O in comprehension, was the man. He rested his head against the sides, with his battered feet kicked up in triumph. Tobacco smoke drifted through letters and words, and the woody aroma alerted the patriots. The patriots, tired from the migraines and gin had surrendered their hands and their reality in fear of the notorious beast.
The man gently handled his pipe from his mouth, and the patriots listened, but there were no words. However desolate and bleak his mannerisms were, the patriots began to cheer. With the vibrations of an orchestra, they believed in what the man was trying to convey, with just his pure entity. The beast was there, it was always there: they just didn’t know it.
He knew though, he couldn’t forget its bewildering glare and its terrifying confusion; he knew it was him that made this beast real. Man started to tremble; his lips quivered and with this so did the patriots behind him. Torches gleaming and silence surrounding them, the drums began to beat with a sound so inspiring, the troops couldn’t help but cry.
Scattering around with spindly legs and a taste so foul, it could tear a pixie in two, the beast plunged into the souls of each and every being, waiting for reactions and dread. With the mighty steel in his grasp, the man defiantly stepped out of his comprehension, and whispered something to the beast…
‘’this sword isn’t for you, this is for me. I want you to understand me, and please forgive my shaking legs as your appearance is beautiful. I just wish I knew you’’.
About Daniel Deamer: ‘I am certainly unsure about probable circumstances. Observing the slight coincident’s that destruct us from the inside. Every now and then you find a completely rounded and almost perfect combination of words, I appreciate the times you forget them because of an irrelevant happening. Something inside us all tells us we are different, however we are life in itself. Creation turns to discrimination which turns to war, which ends in humanity and absolution; no matter how raw. Call me the infinite regression, the recurring dreams of the trees and the wind’.
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