OT: Ourobourous

[Mad Hamlet <Mad-Hamlet@xxxxxxx>]

Greetings,

Some would argue that the subject line for this email is open to personal
intirpriation. On THIS subject alone I would label all who said so as crack
babies and beat them down with a spare mailbox.

This _IS_ the best damn thing ever, and no argument will be accepted.

It simply had to be done. Its story had to be begun.

What story?

Read.


Ourobouros
By Hal Lewis


Somewhere Someone died.
And that great black wyrm,
Midnight scales rippling with endless
Might, did writhe about in ecstacy.
A tounge, fit to encircle the world, 
Flickered between teeth of a maw that 
Never closed and was never sated.
Two red eyes, burning at the dawning, 
Burning at the settings, grew that much 
Brighter. Entropy coilded in its nest of 
Ashes and Endings, Coming one step closer 
To dominion.

The Lady just smiled and carefully 
Plucked a threat, clear and unblemished, 
Heavy with potential, rich with unknown,
But loved as all others it was. Seamlessly
She wove it into the loom, the tapestry bursting
>From across hallowed grounds, to bend and weave
In brillian colors, Of patterns, Of music.
All hues and all cries made the tapestry.

And that black wyrm, maw still open, 
Great teeth, beggging to shear through that
Tapestry, raged. Its tail smashed against the
Grey earth, sending impotent dust spiraling
About its flesh, themselves to be consumed in turn.
But mighty, endless, Entropy had to bow its head.
Succumb to the inevitable. Its progress lost,
Its step foward made undone. 
Another light shone against the dark to
Replace, fulfill and release that which had fallen.

And the lady still smiled; well used to the tantrums
And frustrations of the wyrm. Her hands paused in
Their duties to flick away a speck of errant dust then
Unerringly she returned to her work. Weaving that light 
With the others, adding that note to the song, adding
That color to the picture.

Weaving my daughter into the world.





Allow me to plagerise a bit for the conclusion:

Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.


I remain, as always,
Mad-Hamlet




W.B. Yeats: What rough beast, its hour come at last, slouches toward Bethlehem
to be born?

Mad-Hamlet: Me.



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