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    Artistic Anarchy

    Artistic Anarchy

    A violent rouge, within a gentle soul
    the bruises and scars, the lacarations that marked
    he was a warrior with a sense of justice
    and a will that showed true his painful stride.

    Coming and going from the past to the present
    no family, neither companions, life was roughly unpleasant.
    He made his life punishing the wicked and cruel
    the artistic anarchist that nobody knew ruled.

    The era was daft and people were strange
    stealing, drinking, and raping and fighting, twas time for a change.
    so this man, walked the street, with the coolest of beats
    rained blows upon the benighted ones moaning at his feet.

    With a look of disgust as he deposited his blade
    back within it's scabbard as he withdrew these words
    "You're not worth the time of day."
    This is what he thought about most of his oppenents
    did he waste time on the pathetic, no just the lowest.

    The scum, the vile, the filth beneath his feet
    ashamed to be pained an alien, having to walk this beat.
    Often he'd think mongrals are much more civil
    Why people are shit will forever be a riddle.

    The grave immediate turmoil fires apace so sincerely as it hungers
    the violent rogue, as we've named him would render the devils asunder.
    Blade in and blade through, the red grows a thick awful scarlet
    the sword plunged in false spirit inside the selfishly psychotic.

    This man, a violent rouge, a gentle soul
    slaying the heartless and malicious was his destined role.
    this man was forgetten, forever lost to the tides of wars passed
    his name was never spoken, never mentioned, a nomad only defined in sprayed reds.

    He hated the system in his feudal timed life
    bringing him down lower each day, truly an unjust strife
    his mind snaped and his conscience was fading
    flooded the streets, rabid, overt to his hating.

    The aura, a prominent obscurity of a savage dark
    flush away all of the anguish and now the adrenaline reigns stark.
    The line has been met, the weapons thus engaged
    the bloody protest shall ensue, the parade of the enraged.

    He couldn't last it anymore so he challenged the power
    that condemded him to misery for all days hours
    day in and day out this invisible champion was forced to bow
    to an intolarable fleet of corrupted man hounds.

    The authorities of any, yes, even their emperor
    would soon bow before him, witnessing his dangerous temper.
    The man reached the guards and flashed them his sword
    they seemed not phased, so he insisted on war.

    Leaping high in the sky eclipsing the sunlight
    piercing their flesh and bone with all of his might.
    He slashed and he tore through all of his fury
    intoxicated with rage, not the slightest bit weary.

    His energy was shifting into that of a dark sort
    it was aparent that he would not soon comport.
    He reached these large doors, which no doubt led to the man
    that oppressed his life and everyone's in the land.

    A stalwart swing; he did away with the pass, guided his herculean Katana
    showing himself to the emperor with not the least bit of honor.
    He kneeled down on the ground, eyes locked on his enemy
    he muttered a message "This is now the end of me"

    The limbs of this creature tremble in true nearing
    the final destination of his soul endearing.
    His glimmering blade emboldens his prowess attempt
    and all that is futile is stitched quite, as the toxicity's exempt.

    And now with the final doing of his sword
    he thrusted through as he begged the lord.
    Pulling his loyal blade from his pierced inside
    with a look of "no regret" as he began to die.

    The final words that were known to be said
    were those of a haiku before the man was dead
    This farewell station delivered was vague but enriched
    drowned in a beautiful sentiment that described tears flowing and bewitched.

    In a world of shame
    why do the wicked proceed
    where is the fairness?


    With one last glance at the man before him
    he falls silent to the floor yet the emperor adores him.
    His gallant ways shown to a country of pain
    that his death was not acted soul-destined in vain.

    The people changed wholly, their emotions shifted
    slowly and graciously the black veil began being lifted.
    A violent rouge with a gentle soul
    unbeknownst to him, he had acheived his goal.
    Last edited by Artistic Anarchy; Jan 12, 2012 at 09:43 AM.

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