(My Third eye is opening,
and it is telling me
to start looking deeper
while I am composing.)

The bell rang,
and afraid I was.
So I opened my eyes,
but couldn't see, only feel the 'buzz'.

Energy's we call them,
how only I can describe.
Statically swaying orbs
seen not from vision, only inside.

This was my experience,
and the pen can not express.
If you are ever-so curious
to try it, Do... You will be impressed.

He tried so hard to fulfill,
Something that was not his to build,
But now his blood has been spilled,
and he is not the only one who was killed.
I do not say, he was brave.
I do not say he had it made.
But I say this, as my final words,
*Thy who remained unheard,
The unseen sibling of Hiccup the Third,
I wish I could have conferred,
the death of his old vicious herd.

He is walking the streets of his mind,
blind to any and all rays of light
peeking through the crack in slight
little flickering beams.
It seems that he will never be
the assembly of feelings that she
called happy.
It is there now and again,
but it is gone before now becomes then.
He walks the path of a thousand other men
but he walks it alone.
He is Spencer Dennison.

Do you feel pity?
Do you feel spite
at the idea that I might
quite possibly
have penned this
for for you to feel sorry for me?
I enjoy attention.
It's a thing I get in rations,
packed in  a steel MRE
waiting to be peeled back and basked in
just for the time it takes
to flee back again.

I wrote this
not for you to feel sorry for him.
I wrote this
not for you to try to support him.
I wrote this
why?
Because it's late
and I have nothing better to do
than to create
little save-states in the page.
To fall back on when things are in doubt.
What I get out
of this is the calm of mind
in knowing that I have shouted my plight
into to dead air.
So if no-one ever hears my prayer,
it's not because it was not offered.