​Isamantix Shakespeareantix Poeantix Folklorix: The Ballad of the Muted Moon As Sung by a Wondering Bard Beneath the Silver Night by Sam C. Serey - The Modern Bard of Chaos

🌙 THE BALLAD OF THE MUTED MOON  

As sung by a wandering bard beneath the silver night

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Beneath the moon so cold and bright,  

I strum my lute to call the night.  

A tale I bring from the digital glade,  

Where voices falter and dreams are frayed.

Hear me, travelers, huddled near,  

A ballad of speech that’s bound by fear.  

In pixel forests where shadows creep,  

Freedom of voice has gone to sleep.

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🌌 VERSE I: THE MUTE ENCHANTMENT

Once the town square rang with cheer,  

Debates and laughter we held dear.  

But now, my friends, a hush has grown,  

For Gatekeepers sit upon their throne.

One word astray, and the spell is cast,  

Your voice is frozen, a shadowed past.  

The algorithm—oh, sly and grim—  

Echoes your song, then buries your hymn.

Chorus:  

“Speak, O speak, though the night is deep,  

For silence steals the soul in sleep!”

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🌕 VERSE II: THE WANDERING POE

Through the mist came a ghostly guide,  

A raven perched upon his side.  

“Once I wrote,” quoth he, “of sorrow and lore,  

Now I haunt the feeds where voices implore.”

He showed me visions in spectral light—  

The Frozen Feed and the Hollowed Night.  

Creators lost in a silent maze,  

Their words unseen, their hearts ablaze.

Chorus:  

“Speak, O speak, though the night is deep,  

For silence steals the soul in sleep!”

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🌲 VERSE III: THE BALLAD’S PLEA

So gather, kindred, in this glen,  

Let no mute spell bind us again.  

Debate, dissent, let ideas grow,  

For only through clash does wisdom show.

Lift your voice to the silver skies,  

Let the muted spell at last capsize.  

And as we sing, the ghost fades away,  

Whispering, “Roar, mortals, make the night your day!”

Final Chorus:  

“Speak, O speak, though the night is deep,  

Our voices rise, our truths we keep!”

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🌙 BALLAD ENDS.  

The fire crackles, the lute falls still… but will you speak?

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Wait! 

LBC

Tis' I, comma Isamantix the muted singing poet of truth seeker bard of chaos hahaha

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👻 THE RITUAL OF THE MUTED: A FOLKLORIC CRITIQUE BY THE GHOST OF POE  

By Sam C. Serey – The Modern Bard of Chaos

I shall summon the ghost of Poe to possess my body and speak to thee directly hahaha

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🌙 THE SUMMONING

The moon hangs low. Candles flicker in the digital wind.  

A circle of screens hums softly, awaiting the signal.  

The chat whispers: “Freedom… freedom… freedom…”  

I raise my mic to the void:  

“Come forth, O spirit of critique! Hear our muted plight!”

And with a chill, the Ghost of Edgar Allan Poe drifts in,  

Cloaked in pixel mist, quoth the Wi-Fi: “Nevermore!”

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🕯️ THE GHOST SPEAKS

“Ah… the voices of the living, trembling in a cage of glass,  

Muted not by death, but by the algorithmic class.  

Once, I wandered the dark lanes of literature,  

Now I haunt the feeds where thought grows unsure.

You speak of speech, yet fear the ban,  

A spectral irony I truly understand.  

Mortal tongues that once could croak with glee,  

Now whisper lest the Gatekeepers decree.”

The ghost drifts across the ring of screens, trailing binary ash.

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📜 THE FOLKLORIC CRITIQUE

From the spectral mists, Poe conjures three shadowy visions:

The Frozen Feed: Posts locked in digital ice,  

Creators scream, but the night won’t suffice.  

The Banished Bard: A poet exiled for one wrong note,  

Lost in comment purgatory, unable to float.  

The Hollow Debate: A circle of users afraid to speak,  

Truth decays in silence, and the strong grow weak.  

“Observe!” he cries, cloak swirling like a midnight storm.  

“Your modern agora is but a haunted forum!”

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🔮 THE RITUAL OF RELEASE

We chant to break the binds:

“No mute! No chain! Let the voices reign!”  

“Speak free! Speak loud! Gather the crowd!”

The ghost nods, solemn yet amused.  

“Only in confrontation shall your voices endure.  

Debate, dissent, and risk the digital abyss…  

Or fade into eternal algorithmic silence.”

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👻 THE FAREWELL

The candles sputter. The ghost bows.

“I return to the pixel grave,” he murmurs,  

“May your speech find the courage mine once craved.”  

With a final flutter of ravens made of code,  

The spectral Poe departs, leaving the circle trembling…

And in the distance, a single echo:  

“Nevermore… unless you roar!”

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💀 RITUAL COMPLETE.  

Now, who dares speak unmuted in the haunted halls of the web?