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Amanda M. Blake

~ Of fairy tales and tentacles

Amanda M. Blake

Monthly Archives: May 2020

…because tomorrow you might be dead

16 Saturday May 2020

Posted by amandamblake in A Few Thoughts

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Tags

apocalypse, buffy, coronavirus, end of the world, ice cream

abstract black and white blur book

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

When you’re looking through glass at tomorrow’s history lesson, there are just some things that go through your head.

I worry that I won’t get everything done, that all the things I planned to write over the next ten years won’t get written. That I’ll die with series unfinished and stories untold and unshared.

I’ve gone a lot of places, I’ve met plenty of people, but writing is my life, and I don’t know if I’m going to be alive next year. That’s just truth.

I’m sheltering at home, but so many people in my area aren’t, and without masks. I don’t know anyone who’s died of coronavirus, but I don’t know how many people I know who will. And one of those people could be me. That’s just truth.

I work from home and I don’t go out. My dad is a Whedon dad; he does all the leaving for the household.

This is doing nothing for my paranoia and agoraphobic tendencies, to say the least for my thanatophobia.

One small but significant thing that’s changed is that I eat the ice cream and pizza now. Because if I’m going to die soon, I’m seriously not going to tell myself I can’t have the ice cream. It’s a good thing I really like working out.

Entertaining Devils

08 Friday May 2020

Posted by amandamblake in Music, Poetry

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Tags

lyrics, not a poet, poem, social commentary, social justice, songwriting

ancient architecture art carved stones

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Pexels.com

File this under “Sometimes I Get Mad.”

ENTERTAINING DEVILS

They say demons that tempt you walk in deserts
And the deserts are expanding all the time
Tumbleweeds are our new unit of measure
We just passed the last rusted street sign.

They say there’s gold in them there hills
At night, you hear cries and flashing lights
The moths flock in to eat their decaying fill
Promised cold ends in a warm paradise.

But the games are all rigged
And the house always wins,
The promise a mirage,
Successes the sins.

There are many roads and doors
To a hell with many levels
Another one bites the dust
As soon as the last red dust cloud settles
The wolves, they wear white wool
And the lambs howl like rebels
If we’re entertaining angels
Then aren’t we also entertaining devils?

There is more than one dead end coming
Red paint on cardboard says an end is nigh
With long dead language, the demons are summoned
With living words, the demon have learned to lie.

Abundant feasts have gone brown and spoiled
Laughter follows as the weakest fall
Nothing but fog for which men have toiled
Dancing in the streets from the latest thrall.

The party continues on
Until we wear through the soles
When laughs turn to screams
There’s no buying what we sold.

There are many roads and doors
To a hell with many levels
Another one bites the dust
As soon as the last red dust cloud settles
The wolves, they wear white wool
And the lambs howl like rebels
If we’re entertaining angels
Then aren’t we also entertaining devils?

From the view of the mad, the sane seem worse
Sanity’s heart is sanity’s curse
Hell’s unemployed, basking in the glow
There’s no telling how far man will go
To keep the wheels turning
And the candles burning
And the spirits yearning
For something already sacrificed
To the discerning gentleman
With scotch on ice
Who makes sure no one’s learning
What feeds the beast, what feeds a man

What need have we for devils
When we do so well ourselves?
Half the fun of wreaking havoc
Is knowing how many angels fell.

There are many roads and doors
To a hell with many levels
Another one bites the dust
As soon as the last red dust cloud settles
The wolves, they wear white wool
And the lambs howl like rebels
If we’re entertaining angels
Then aren’t we also entertaining devils?

 

Warning Signs

01 Friday May 2020

Posted by amandamblake in Music, Poetry, Uncategorized

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Tags

apocalypse, end of the world, lyrics, not a poet, poem, songwriting

white rose and pink smoke

Photo by Flora Westbrook on Pexels.com

The coming mist glows yellow
With sulfur in its smell
A smoky sky, hanging low,
Carries dangerous stories to tell.

Red sky in the morning
Blood on the moon at night
An ill-swept wind blows in
With an eerie kind of light.

The world is lit with warning signs
The roads run dark and still
Cyan bruises on these lips of mine
Purple sage upon the hill.

Red eyes from the mourning
Blood on the sheets at night
A sickness marks our subtle sin
The beast will have its bite.

In all the colors of all the signs
We saw but haven’t seen
That we bring ourselves to an end of times
When all we can see is green.
When all we can need is green.

A person must be wicked
If a person’s to be heard
Were I a witch, with verdant skin,
Could the lesson be learned?

Red hives in the morning
Blood from the mouth at night
The edge of green is browning
And blackens into white.

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