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Hold me togetherO dusty heart, may your sinews hold me together
place my fragile mind beneath the oak leaves
and leave the rain within the sky
pull me from the ashes and help me rise
from ignorance and arrogance
pull my head towards the light
gentle and silent
we ache as the old do
and groan as the young
make my days worth living
my nights worth dreaming
tease me from death
spark the fire
smile upon my shadows
keep the tongues at bay
sink the anchor
O dreamer, dancer
turn the days into November
Darling, I listen
my mind will quicken
just breathe me in
steal the ruby
unfurl into beauty
The pink hueThe fringes of madness are so close
I can smell the sickly sweet scent of temptation
And it rises as vapour into the air
I am left simply
At his translucent skin
His pale face
His burning cheeks
My yellow hands turn a pink hue
That leaves me hanging
With soft words on my tongue
And I love, I love, I love
NightIt sounded like rain against the window pane. Big, fattened, wet drops splattering and then dribbling down the glass with nowhere else to go. Endless streams renewed by their forgotten partners now joining together and baptising the earth something new. The decaying sound of music rising upwards before fading into the white noise of the night leaves insomniacs with buzzing in their ears. Our sharp setting is a suburban area and row of terraced houses, neatly tucked up against each other with trimmed garden at the front and wild, overgrown ones at the back. The moon keeps one wary eye on the earth and another on the depths of space, his glow lighting up the darkest of corners of this town. Street lights line the streets every few yards, the occasional one spluttering as if coughing out the light but not quite managing it. The light gives out a little past 12:37PM. Our destination for this story would be a field around 20 yards from where we currently are now. It is sodden fro
LifeThe dust settles
It's job is to display how
Things have become over these years.
Time has passed leaving its grubby fingermarks
In the soft creases.
There are too many pages
To recollect anymore.
I watch the toddler from the window.
Hands stretched out
And I yearn for such life.
I cradle her
And stop finding it fascinating
And start realising, accepting
Lemons are sourDusty feet, dusty eyes, dusty souls. The road isn't even a road, just dirt and converse padding sullen with a hint of secret happiness. There's not much left but that blue and green and brown with such brazen contrast it's almost offensive. Earphones stuffed in ears and a sweet, sweet melody that means absolutely nothing. Nothing can be broken for blissful minutes. Stepping on the bridge, wooden planks and the sudden chilling rush of water inviting you in. It's hot, too hot and the song ends as so does everything else. Shadows are too cool and the tiles beneath her bare feet make her gasp. It's always been like this, for too long even, you just never realise. Sleepless nights of just staring and thinking and wishing and denying. Denying is always there. Staring at the walls and turning in the heat. Silence to yourself, no one can take it when they are too busy sleeping careless dreams. Waking without realising you had been sleeping. The heavy eyes and reluctance so deep it makes you wa
The black. No other colour does varnish its matt surface. No bright light would dare intrude on its territory. The kind of nothingness black where you can thrust your hand through and wave around and feel nothing because there is nothing. They say colour and seeing is simply the reflection of light on objects, but Claire knows otherwise. She knows that someone painted it black, with spite and love, with a furrowed brow and glistening passion. The paintbrush drips down, and falls where it shouldn't.
Claire is watching from her window, fascination in full presence with wide eyes and hanging mouths. Her arms are crossed, squashing her chest, her left nightdress strap hanging down. Hair messy, still sleeping with the stars, she watches in amazement; but we'll come back to that later. She watches the black and what happens in between. She watches the atoms, their colour unknown; some say the colour has no name. The particles gather in the black, the atoms collecting together. They
We are allWe are the earth, the sky
We are everlasting faith
And eyes in defeat
We are storms with heart
With are strength in mind
We are hatred in the raw
We are the creators of soul
We are the minds of life
We are everything we ever were
With flickering eyes
Laughter through the eves
Murmurs in the darkness
With the beings we are
And fingers we have
Held hands and knowledge
Joined by everything
We are all.
A ThoughtLike ice upon the shoulder
Of a broken soul
It's a matter of time
Of expectation on tongues
Stinging eyes, streaming
Everything at stake
Blind as we are,
Somebody has already said it
Swept beneath the door
Parallel with myself
But it's just a thought
In fact, it's nothing
Weathered with ages
It has seen memories
Events, hearts, lives
Repaired time and time again
Scars of deep beige
Tell tales of the unheard
Seeping deep amber
It's leaves weep to the floor
Mourning their loss
Past branches break free
Tumbling to the earth
It cries so silently
Yet it's fallen tears
Will become one with the earth
Will fuse with life
Will break free of grasps
And be reborn
I'll meet her again...Its Samhain. The line between the spirit
world and our own is a ray of moonlight.
Its the night when the reluctant soul sticks
to our plane, hovering - a withered rose
whose beauty is the figment of a dream;
a gleam gilding the surface of the lake.
For long hours of idyll would the Lake
poets revel in letting their spirit
soar free on the nightingales wings, and dream
of glimpsing their Muse clad in pure moonlight
but tonight magics afoot: clouds just rose
to blur the moon like fumes from incense sticks.
The Romantics habit of rambling sticks
to mind tonight, as I stroll to the lake
and sit down to recall the violent rows
wed have every night, before her spirit
gave itself over to the bland moonlight
and chose to rest and die, not live and dream.
But perhaps tis I thats strayed in a dream?
For in that small nest, fashioned out of sticks,
I see her visage, painted in moonlight.
I glimpse a lady traversing the
All Hallows' EveShe leaps and whirls to a ritual beat,
Bare feet kicking loose the earth;
None of us, idle by, know her name,
Or why, on Halloween, she comes -
Each year, the same slow night
Each year, her same swift sway.
No vaulted stars illuminate her way,
Lulled or snake-charmed by the beat
Resounding in this deep-well night;
Perhaps they, like us, crashed to earth,
To this place where dream-touched come,
To this place which has no name.
She mouths and mimes the names
Of the countless many who lost their way;
Those who would not, could not come
And herald thunder's echoing drum-beat:
Her hard footfalls on the loam and earth,
Her hard footfalls in the night.
Others curse and rail against the night,
Fearing demons they dare not name,
We feel them, restless, beneath the earth,
And stirred this night, always;
Awakened by the lady's pulse-warm beat,
Awakened by the night, they come.
Our fears, now shaped, are swift to come,
Rising with the tide of slow-fall night -
From chambers low and deep, an ascend
The Spectre That WasThe Spectre That Was
Out I went, searching for a spectre
That would prove to my not so limp
Opposition that something was. Into the night
I sent forth thought after crystal
Thought, only to have them shatter into crimson
Shards of laughing, lightning silver.
Sometimes, though a sliver of silver
Specks would spatter a lovely spectre
Of my ambition onto a dull crimson
Reflection of a crushed,limp,
Me. Light upon light of crystal
I shine, but everything is swallowed into the night.
I am not a disciple of the night,
Its shadows scare me silver
And white while chiming alarms of crystal,
Make my body separate from its spectre.
Meanwhile the absurdly lopsided limp
Form of a thought in my head bleeds crimson.
It flashes upon me, that splash of crimson
Repeatedly blinding me, making the night
Seem almost faint, hazy, limp;
While my life force oozes out in a silver
Splotch only for me to finally spot the spectre
Emerging from its structure of crystal.
After it I went, my shadow forming cr
Post-ghost Toast.One day I saw a ghost
A-sitting on a post,
And he was eating toast,
Not any kind of roast,
So I was feeling grossed
By this ghost with the most.
He really was the most
Face-stuffing, greedy ghost
That got completely grossed
Out while perching on a post
(A skewer for a roast)
By eating red hot toast.
Crumbs fell down from this toast,
And down on me the most,
Till I began to roast,
Shake my fist at the ghost,
All safe up on his post,
Not caring I was grossed.
While I was getting grossed
By bits of burning toast,
I kicked hard at the post,
At the weakest point most,
To dislodge this mean ghost
And hoping not to roast.
Yes, I was scared to roast,
So scared as well as grossed;
Not that coal munching ghost
With carbonated toast,
Which fell on me the most
From top of that damn post.
I grabbed and shook that post;
My anger made me roast:
My face burned red the most
On top of being grossed
By vile, Hadean toast
Ground up by crunching ghost.
I was the most grossed roast
That ever turned to toast
His Oath of FealtyWHEN vaunted skies were torn asunder,
vast mountains stood with faces grave,
then thunder rolled in waves so shrill
fast became their frightened eyes.
Surge thus from moste despairing dungeon:
emerge, you foul-perilous fiend.
Feet canker-ridden, this grotesque fiend
(whose flesh hung, 'twas shred asunder)
beat his chest; limping from dank dungeon
muse in his arms. Features grave,
pale as frost, and see her vacant eyes
rail at death had she once screamed shrill?
Stately castle echoed weeping shrill
but who may say? Odious fiend,
greatly quiv'ring body, his eyes
cut at each edge. Asunder
were the stepping stones, a pit-like grave
stir did his thoughts. Leaving dungeon,
so on he went that long-passed dungeon
and rose to where the winds were shrill,
banned was the use of darkened grave!
O, up battlements, the fiend
thought of his dear late king. Asunder,
brought apart by loss; when fiends' eyes
A Night in the Cemetary.."Bet you won't sleep in the cementary."
Mocked the bedsheet ghost.
"It's Halloween, it's way too scary."
Chimed in the werewolf.
"I'll do it." I said, sounding brave.
But really, I was scared of the dead.
We passed trees, cold and dead
On our way to the cemetary.
Passed bats that looked spooky, knights that looked brave..
But the costumes didn't compare to shadow ghosts.
Or the howls that came from the lips of a werewolf.
When compared with the costumes, they were more scary.
Finally we reached the gates, which only to me seemed scary.
Of course, no one else had to sleep with the dead.
Another howl, another image of a hungry werewolf.
Nothing like the friend in costume, who stood outside the cemetary.
A chill, I thought of all the tortured ghosts.
Could I really be so brave?
I didn't have a choice. I had to be brave.
I had to pretend it wasn't that scary.
I had to believe I was imagining ghosts.
I had to believe there would be no rise of the dead.
I had to believe I would be safe in th
To Die Beautiful....She says; I can still the motion forever, in a moment,
The tireless, and careless carousing of the clock
Whos hands do trace their gluttonous way
Across the timeless, tempestuous, graceful face
Of my brave and valiant Grandfather Death.
For I'm his favorite Grand-Daughter; mortals call me Age;
Whos once-maiden-mouth, now ornery with age
Purses her lips, and then says; I guard the secret of what is meant
Behind Grandfathers talk of veils and vestiges of death.
See, now how she gestures towards the ticking clock;
Each passing hand leaves a line upon your face
In her you may find hope, or choose to tread the other way:
Not towards the beacon light, but the path that points away
From life bitter-sweet swelling into your golden age;
From watching your beauty become slowly defaced,
Until, unprepared, you reach that loathsome moment
She is the priestess-queen of your ticking clock
Allow her, she leads you softly down to delicious Death.
White RainI am insane. In haunted house alone
I wander. Silent, patient... and I wait.
I wish that someone came and shared my pain.
And who am I? Some entity unknown?
I think... I think complexion mine is white,
I am quite sure I like the sound of rain.
The silver scatter sound... oh yes, the rain.
I cannot count the times I've stood alone
The world around me rain-bleached pure and white.
But why I stand? For whom I always wait?
What is my present? What my past? Not known.
And so I am in numb and tiring pain.
It is familiar now... I was in pain
Some time before but never knew I rain...
Still water, though, yes, that for me is known.
I think forever have I been alone.
I am so sick of shadows, always wait,
I wait in lonesome tower, clad in white.
It never was my favourite colour... white...
For some or other reason it means pain.
But who was I? This knowledge still I wait
When sitting by the window, staring rain.
Some curse is cast upon me. All alone
I stay, and why? The reason is not known.
Sestina: MaskedI'm claustrophobic and cannot wear a mask
it tightens around my face and shifts
to fit every curve of my cheekbone and skin
and the funnel-vision entraps my eyes
while I try to still breathe though
the mouth-hole sits too small on my face.
Every time I disguise my outward face
I feel like I'm wearing that containing mask
which hides my self behind its plaster though
I can still sense every emotional shift.
And through the costume I've put on, my eyes
run red and wide as I'm terrified out of my skin.
I wish that I could put on a different skin
to hide myself and to change my truthful face,
one that was mine and fit, so my wild eyes
would not show the panic hidden behind the mask.
One that follows every breath, every small shift.
I don't think I could find such a thing, though.
Children who wear their plaster facade, though
must not understand they're donning a second skin
to be such at ease, changing as they will, to shift
into different visages. They can choose their face
with a snap o
Trick-or-Treat SestinaTrick or- Treat Sestina-Ween
The suffocating darkness
Finally creeps in from the
Never ending void called
The sky. It waits so silent
Until the final day is gone
And the moon is out to play
Only at that moment are the
Terrifying ghouls at last called
The air and space is silent
All trace of day is gone
And the stage is set for the play
As it waits a moment in darkness
The creatures have been called
Howls pierce the silent
Air as all peace has gone
The forest will begin to play
Yet in never ending darkness
And the chilling sound of the
Heartbeats racing like feet yet silent
All wish that these devils were gone
As they pester on doors. Play
Games as they scream in darkness
Little thieves with hands readying the
Bags and bowls that have called
Nothing will stop until they are gone
They do anything to play
For such jewels in the darkness
These gems are gone quick but the
Moment taken is precious as they are called
Names which do not suit the silent
After so many hours at play
Hath No FearGiving yourself completely up to fear is kinda like falling in love: You can't pin point exactly when it started and by the time you realize that you are surrounded by that sensation it's already game over. Just like the image of the person you are in love with starts creeping out from every unexpected corner, fear never leaves your side when you give it a welcome stay. After a restless sleep, it starts beating anxiously in your heart the moment you wake up in the morning and commands all your thoughts and actions throughout the day. It is nothing short of a prison, except you are the only inmate and the warden never takes a break. Ever.
I do not exactly remember when I let fear occupy my being but I remember the exact moment when I realized I was ruled by it. It was late in the afternoon, everybody was out there 'getting busy living' and I had locked myself inside my bed half awake, not particularly finding any valid reason to get out of it. Then I was awakened from a nightmare by my
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More