AOWL Week 8: pohfig (4-1) VS. Red glare (4-2) [RED GLARE WINS, 7-5.]

Red glare · 04-08-2013, 02:38 AM

The weight of the world is almost featherless; for a seven year old - strown with benevolence.
A super imagination, he honed, all alone in his desolate catacomb of repressiveness.
The dark hole of eccentric bliss.
Where ideas light up - glow degenerate - zones of censorship,
Cold fluorescent mist.
The wandering thinkers' slow stroll through sentiments.
His 7 steps through the flashes of brilliance - bulbs from the genesis.
The beautiful home of intelligence - now under my control of the red abyss.
The frontal lobe. A funneled globe. Spun below rove of the mega ships.
Heaven sent roads from the cerebellum closed for connectedness.
Construction workers along the information highway - place orange cones in concession
Spikes thrown with deterrence.
The wheels turning; but the minds slow to detect the strips.
We are tired; worn out; run down; flat.
But we continue to roam directionless -
Unknown elements float into my domes nebulous.
Droves of pestilence latch on - rode through exodus.
My craft is departing - leaving behind ideas; Dust bowls of irrelevance.
The old testament of recklessness the stories of redemption; told by the treacherous
Get on the phone with the president.
Tell him the future is full blown in blemishes.
"Today America lightens the load;
The world as we know it is crashing in; we are moments from detriment.
A large abstract structure approaches earth - prone for prevalence.
A million light years traveling through our galaxy - a boulder of detritus.
You have less than an hour before comatose, in it's eminence.
Evacuate on my command" he states in his low baritone of emphasis.
"These scientist say an eroding edifice can be heard barreling towards us with bestowing resonance."
We are the tumor - the node of negligence.
The presidents voice could be heard now, bold and tremulous.
The Blank expression on the mans face shows no embellishment.
"God bless your soul; and may your spirit uphold the blessedness"
The ideas gathered; frozen in restlessness
In their humble abode; looking for leadership -
When the main idea rose from the residents.
"Who will be the Big Idea chosen to settle this?"
The thoughts looked around at each other - noble - but hesitant.
"The world needs us more than ever; now who'll be the last hope for Centaurus?"
A 7 year old Clark Kent; stood amongst the men lowly; depressed
His mother said;
"My son can save the world; he is the heir to the throne of Persepolis..."
A preadolescent figure came forward, shown no acceptance.
The world was seconds from it's first mode of progression.
"The human race is fucked as we know it - cloned for it's celibance."
The Ideas turned off the T.V. and threw the remote at the television.
The 7 year boy was left to grow up in his moment of excellence.
His chromosomal genetics defied the codes of kinetics.
The devastation hit earth - sending strobes as it's messages.
As it is told... Super-Man had flown like Pegasus.
Cape draped over his shoulder;
S - golden yellowish.

04-08-2013, 02:38 AM	#6
Red glare Senior Member Join Date: Feb 2013 Posts: 189 Battle Record: 7-9 Rep Power: 0	The weight of the world is almost featherless; for a seven year old - strown with benevolence. A super imagination, he honed, all alone in his desolate catacomb of repressiveness. The dark hole of eccentric bliss. Where ideas light up - glow degenerate - zones of censorship, Cold fluorescent mist. The wandering thinkers' slow stroll through sentiments. His 7 steps through the flashes of brilliance - bulbs from the genesis. The beautiful home of intelligence - now under my control of the red abyss. The frontal lobe. A funneled globe. Spun below rove of the mega ships. Heaven sent roads from the cerebellum closed for connectedness. Construction workers along the information highway - place orange cones in concession Spikes thrown with deterrence. The wheels turning; but the minds slow to detect the strips. We are tired; worn out; run down; flat. But we continue to roam directionless - Unknown elements float into my domes nebulous. Droves of pestilence latch on - rode through exodus. My craft is departing - leaving behind ideas; Dust bowls of irrelevance. The old testament of recklessness the stories of redemption; told by the treacherous Get on the phone with the president. Tell him the future is full blown in blemishes. "Today America lightens the load; The world as we know it is crashing in; we are moments from detriment. A large abstract structure approaches earth - prone for prevalence. A million light years traveling through our galaxy - a boulder of detritus. You have less than an hour before comatose, in it's eminence. Evacuate on my command" he states in his low baritone of emphasis. "These scientist say an eroding edifice can be heard barreling towards us with bestowing resonance." We are the tumor - the node of negligence. The presidents voice could be heard now, bold and tremulous. The Blank expression on the mans face shows no embellishment. "God bless your soul; and may your spirit uphold the blessedness" The ideas gathered; frozen in restlessness In their humble abode; looking for leadership - When the main idea rose from the residents. "Who will be the Big Idea chosen to settle this?" The thoughts looked around at each other - noble - but hesitant. "The world needs us more than ever; now who'll be the last hope for Centaurus?" A 7 year old Clark Kent; stood amongst the men lowly; depressed His mother said; "My son can save the world; he is the heir to the throne of Persepolis..." A preadolescent figure came forward, shown no acceptance. The world was seconds from it's first mode of progression. "The human race is fucked as we know it - cloned for it's celibance." The Ideas turned off the T.V. and threw the remote at the television. The 7 year boy was left to grow up in his moment of excellence. His chromosomal genetics defied the codes of kinetics. The devastation hit earth - sending strobes as it's messages. As it is told... Super-Man had flown like Pegasus. Cape draped over his shoulder; S - golden yellowish.