Poetry Dump

Dirge of the Silvanshee:

For those of you who don’t remember, the silvanshee, who are normally happy-go-lucky cat agathions in Pathfinder, are in the Southern Basin a race of agathion who fought a genocidal war with a species called the Ashmanti in an attempt to stop them from destroying the world accidentally.

While some survived with minds intact, many did not. Those that did not went into the Gloom, the Elemental Plane of Mist, and became… warped. This is how they view those who recoil at what they are. Note that pretty much all of them are unpredictably violent and probably count as bipolar.



You dare?
You dare judge us?
You, who have lived a simple life,
An easy life.
Pathetic.
Oh yes, I say—
Pathetic!
Have you ever held the fate,
The fate of worlds,
In your paws?
Hmm?
What about the lives
Of billions of sophonts?
No?
I thought not.
You,
You little planar traveler,
Thinking he’s all experienced.

You haven’t experienced pain.
You haven’t experienced war.
You haven’t experienced hatred.
You haven’t experienced longing.

Damn you!
You’re so damn lucky
And you can’t even see it!
I have walked the planes.
I have walked the planes between the planes.
I have even gone Outside, to that land of madness.
I have gone mad,
Been swallowed in the fire of insanity,
And I was reborn.
I see stars, dammit!
But I can’t touch them!
They’re so beautiful,
Beckoning to me.
Mocking me.

the planes cast me out.
cast all of us out.
nothing…
nothing blatant.
it was just…
everything
too much to bear
our crimes,
our sin.
the death of thousands.
all our fault,
yet we had no choice.
damn us.
damn us all.
maybe we already are.
nobody wants us.

But that is my burden to bear!
Not yours!
And not something you may judge me for!

you haven’t experienced pain.
you haven’t experienced war.
you haven’t experienced hatred.
you haven’t experienced longing.
you haven’t experienced death.
you haven’t experienced suffering.

you haven’t experienced life.
or loss.

lucky you, I guess.





I walk alone.
A figure in the baking desert,
Distorted by heat.
Staring straight ahead,
I am on a solitary trek.
Sun beats down from overhead,
Making cracks in the landscape of my mind.
And making my eyes water
Despite my tearmarks.

I know not how long I have walked,
Nor my destination,
Or even my origin.
Only the journey can be known.
Pawprints stretch back for miles,
Distinct despite the hard ground.
But still, they seem to waver,
And even if I wanted to,
I could not retrace my steps.

Where am I?
Where have I been?
What am I?
What was I?
What am I becoming?
Do I even move?
Or does the world itself shift around me?
Am I going in circles?
Am I even going anywhere?

As I walk, I change.
Protrusions form, dark vast spiky things,
Then vanish into dust blown by a phantom wind.
Metal and gears shimmer across my body,
Finally disappearing into heat mirage.
My very self fades,
Then blazes like a supernova.
And then it fades again.
My essence warps.