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My name is Joe. I got into gaming at a very young age, possibly 5 years old, all I remember is playing the Super Mario Bros., Duck Hunt, Donkey Kong Jr., and Super Mario Bros. 3, and quite frankly, I haven't stopped.
Child of Light: Confessions 1-4
The centuries have been unkind to us,
Gods forgotten within white temples fade,
Under lidded eyes the palace sits, frayed,
Doors closed, behind bleached rooms gathering dust,
The gilded throne's gleam muted by dull rust.
Rings worn into still walls chart neglect laid,
Strata of history cleaned by no maid,
No breeze, Mirrors shut, glass mottled with must.
The Explorers stand still, statues bleached white,
Eyes lidded, heads empty as the room.
Plans fade for a future repainted bright.
Pristine comes unclean without a fresh flight,
The past reigns, skeletal, holding a blank slate,
The gleaming potential of a tomb.
Our bodies cut like dragonflies the air
Dividing, parceling the winds for later,
To unwrap carefully under the stair.
Like bark our skin stores fire's blinding blue flare,
Earthquakes our bones shake at their equator,
Arced light from the sky dances in our hair.
Gifts all hidden beneath surface willpower,
Raging rivers subterranean, pure,
Water tapped before the Explorers' Tower,
By wild ones, keepers of magic power.
They alone divined the deep source obscure,
Their grasp taught Lemuria to flower.
Yet instead of giving, we build cages,
And bury truth, hid our world from the ages.
Some say an idea can be dangerous,
Like creepers in the garden so serene,
Beneath sprawling plants twisted unseen,
Exposing buried heads insidious,
Uprooting order created for us.
Frenetic vines dividing stone and stream,
Intent on sacrificing virgin green,
And turning tended rows to wilderness.
But what of those who nurse the garden fair?
The curious bees darting bloom to bloom.
From outside the garden's limit they be,
And bring abundant life to nature's womb.
Their fearsome sting may cause the meek to flee,
But tangled creepers they coax to bear fruit.
Pen scratches paper, the first to attack.
Some lines end, ink out, well impotent, dry,
Others drip, ruining many an I.
Some run off the page and never come back,
Others bleed, cloaked in gowns of black.
Father above son, rarely crossing wives,
Boxes in pairs line up to die.
All burn as they sign the Hollow Pact.
Treaties, trees and battle plans end the same,
Under one roof executed, spell cried,
Our kin ambushed in Cynbel's name.
Family strikes out family, for crowns red dyed.
Ink on paper drips down brows like rain,
Poison pen plants a forest of pain.
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| Living the dream since 2006