In rugged mountains ringed in mist
You stood, majestic, against the sky
Where mighty timbers soared towards heaven
Your tall spires shimmered on high

Where trickling creek met mighty river
And Voolkys wandered in the sun
Where cave mouths shimmered with hint of diamond
You nestled with beauty matched by none

In fairer days the merchant traders
Thronged to deal in your pleasant streets
Spices and fabrics and fruit from afar
Were bought and sold from the hawker’s seat

I had to write an essay to graduate from my umbrella school. I decided to write my exit essay on what it was like to home school.

On the outer skirts of the Timberway forest there stood a small worn down hut. It was poorly built and made out of what looked like scraps you could find on the street of the Kingdom. It seemed as though one small gust of wind could turn the hut into one small pile of dust and ashes. As I am sure you know my dear reader, looks can be awfully deceiving. The hut belonged to a powerful wizard and was protected by a magical spell. The wizard, not wanting to be bothered by people searching for him to make them invincible or something of the sort, which is preposterous, had hidden himself away.

“In days of old
When all was fair.
And Elves by the sea did abode.
Goanaath the wise looked into the mirror.
He saw a worn ship sail down a great river.
Upon it's deck stood a single elf in fear.
Not an arrow was left in his quiver.
Upon his face was a lonely tear.
As he looked he saw the elf fall.
As one final arrow hit him from the shore.
Such was the end of Manror the tall.
When the goblins started the Noemalnar war.
The Elves did avenge Him with the help of the Dwarves.

The wind blows aoftly.
The rain falls gently.
We stand and wait.
To see our fate.
Looking at flowers.
For they are all ours.
The sun lights the days.
And shines down it's rays.
So here we stand.
On this blessed land.
Speaking from the heart.
In whole not in part.
For eternity we'll live.
For life is ours to give.

It only takes a brief glance at the sheer volume of books on the market to make it painfully obvious that writing books is a popular thing to do nowadays. And as a result, libraries and bookstores are flooded with novel upon novel ad nauseam. The public demand for novels is seemingly insatiable. In consequence, writers crank out book after book after book, in very short periods of time.

While munching on pizza in one of Harvard Square’ many tucked away food coops, I found myself slipping into contemplation. Scanning the drab alleyway outside the window, my eyes fell upon a pitiful old beggar, no younger it seemed than 67, opening and closing the door to CVS for passersby. Intrigued and repulsed by the degradation possible even at his old age, I unabashedly studied the figure noticing with surprise that his grimy-gray, wrinkled T-shirt read, “superior justice” in bright blue letters.

This is going to look really long and scary, but-- Ok, never mind. It is long. And it might be scary. But I promised it, so here it is. Have fun...

A small ode to the excitement of the game commonly known as ultimate Frisbee

---

It’s sailing, fast, straight at you
Slicing through the air
You slow and turn to meet it
You watch with steady stare

But, no, the wind us tricky
The pass is much too high
You turn and begin to run again
As it goes sailing by

Slowly it loses altitude
As you try to run it down
Nearer, nearer, nearer
Don’t let it hit the ground!

Why did I do it?
I let myself hope again.
All my dreams have been shattered.
I am the only one to blame.

Happiness is an elusive thing.
It tugs at my heart,
Teases me onward,
Then lets me be ripped apart.

Every time I try
To catch the golden beast
I end up in pain.
Will I ever find peace?

I am fragile,
And now I've been broken.
It's my own fault
For leaving myself open.

I should know better.
Has hope ever paid off?
Not in my life.
My dreams never remain aloft.