Here, take a seat
Be sure to be as comfortable as possible
This is what you ever wanted to be
To do or represent
This is your own show
Your special stage
Don't let it fade
Make it shine
Succeed.
who cares about anxiety?
Just ignore it and do what you need to do
That's always how things work
you can just ignore them and do things and then nothing happens but stars in your brain,
supernovas of dazzling white-hot pain shot through the cerebral cortex.
what the **** are you doing?- why do you care so much about how you look?
stop caring
YOU'RE JUST LAZY
and if you didn't whine so much you'd be able to do everything you wanted,
you big baby.
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
and it rains
only slightly. Pink winds
and black clouds
settle on dead
and purple horizons.
Even in this town,
I walk like a stranger.
I see a woman cross the street
in a blue skirt, so short
the end of it would ride down
to only half the thigh. Her sleeveless top
hugs her chest
so gentle
but firm enough. I can see
the outlines of her bra. I could imagine
it was not there, noticed then
how beautifully her breasts would hang
like the scales of a balance without
the weights. Her stoic look
behind those plastic shades
is like every building and every weather
happening down this road. There's noise
here, for sure, but all feels too quiet
as if only empty vessels, stones and
dimensional facades occupy
this space, still with much more
to fill. Even her—
I’m sorry,
but she is not special. Every time
I look at a woman, it is only the face
of suffering I see.
And I don't see anything else.
the illustrious glow baffles the mind,
bright autumn shades scattered timidly throughout the landscape,
vividly percepted as real,
but almost thought as fake,
the sunset horizon overloads the senses
NUMb LOCK
Why mi keyboard no working?
da blk cble in
errytang is on.
de clikar iz wurking.
dat porn machine haz drivarz
wut iz gon on?
o w8, numb lock in on.
About Frox: for nearly 10 years, Frox has been helping women look good and feel great in easy-fit, mix-and-match, and work-to-weekend with just a few pieces by helping them make the right choices when it comes to clothing and accessories.
“We’ve been searching and searching, yet we’ve still not found Onanore. I suggest we retire this expedition.” -Anonymous
Let us go then to that place
where tides recede
to and fro, rocking gently
in the night.
Where calm had chased the squall,
let us speak with the sea if it did so
sigh, and ask, have you seen Onanore?
And on the ocean and its hands—
the little fingers of foam
touching the shores and our feet—
let us trade, hold them to their word
on the business of their brine
carried from several nations
of countries irrelevant (they're not Onanore),
investigating the matter over sand
using massive sieves and sifters,
shovels and shovels and shovels
and shoulders for those shovels
to mark the grains we find more interesting
than some.
We'll let imaginings take hold
when we talk to minerals,— you, El Dorado, and you, sweet Atlantis— shake our heads without tears
when we pick up a speck of salt, whispering (oh Carthage, how you grow no more), telling stories of the stars, each one
a life of a denizen in a day of Onanore.
We'll do this in turns, even though
we know this shore is not the one
we're looking for. More likely,
the men are now mud,
the women been seized by some
raging nimbi, and the children, turned
into a rolling wind, upon a roiling
current. As the statues and homes,
towers of Onanore are reduced
to lonely mountains, scarred
so indistinguishable, they could be
any other lump of stone,
(breathless and cold)—
A/N: The poem can be read in two ways--one where the lines in the parenthesis are read along with the poem, or one where the parenthesis are read inside the reader's head, but not spoken.
Not (just) Ssomeone
I didn't know you well, but I felt your impact
You made sure the right tree always fell
You always spoke the truth, never smack
in your future adventures, I fare thee well
A hero too us all
so said to see him fall
May life treat you well Not (just) Someone
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Originally Posted by Arcadic View Post
scumbag
Want Higher Level Card Evaluation? Visit Diestoremoval.com
the girl the concept the muse
i am constantly changing
but she remains the same
look in my dreams of metamorphosis
and i wish i would stay the same
and i try
she is across an ocean
i float through it weightless like
i don't exist like
i am a construction
and once i reach her through the night i touch her
and she jumps back as though my hand scalds her
and she says "the princess is in another castle"
and she jumps out the window and
her crown shatters
later she is at the top of a tall tower
and i look up from the ground and want her
and i try to soar to her
but there is something inviolable
blocking me within me so
i open the door
there are stairs and i walk up them
spiraling treacherous
each step a searing jolt of agony
my head tires as i ascend
my spirit dim as i pretend that
i know what i'm doing
She is up at the top
i walk as far as i can and then farther
and the spiral the staircase makes along the sides of the wall has a massive emptiness when you look towards the middle
that seems more and more enticing the longer
i walk
there is another door halfway up the tower
leading to a room suspended on a chain
a door i haven't seen before
and the door opens like it knows me
and there is someone there
moving back and forth between forms
they seem afflicted, disgusting, blind and
i don't know what to do so
i run back to the stairs and up them
because my dream is at the top
but there are no barriers between us,
nothing but steps that take forever
my legs ache but i climb all the way up and
i open the door
she is there when i open the door
she is the one i want
but different somehow by proximity
i touch her hand and my blood runs cold
but she doesn't run away and
i turn into something i don't recognize and
i know i'm wrong so
i close my eyes and try
to feel better
but nothing works
nothing ever works
so
i back out of the room
and she just watches me
smiling in that way
and smirking in that way
she is everything i thought i wanted but
i close the door and walk backwards down the stairs
and go back to the room i left before and
i touch the horror
filled with wonder
and it resolves itself and
i resolve myself and
i am suspended in a room in the middle of nowhere but
i have everything
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Deep in Hell by sticky slathered cherry well sits
Azazel with eviscerated turtle shell bell.
Singing ringing. Dunced
and dinging-dong.
Samael smokes Satan's bong.
Boiling bubble
on stacked-up rubble. Barbeque
marinated, emaciated,
d
e
s
e
crated.
Pull-deeeeeeep
Zzzip—rrrrip,
taste strong and long. Apollyon carries along,
Panty-raids for Lilith's…(thong).
Where Lucifer sits on his throne, made of stone and
t
w
i
s
t
e
d
b
o
n
e.
Alone.
Requested - invested - in the dark, Ghenna's park bench
Hell's mensch serves randy sandy candy-coated pomello.
Strawberry-[heart/heat] seek the beat and wiggle like jello—
Hello! Good Sir Beelzebub!
Dub rub rubber ducky piping ganga to the tub.
Roiling soiling boiling, sticky thickly sickly slathered
berry-gumdrop soup. Loup back.
To Lilith joining lucky Samael.
Oh! How her legs go on to Hell.
Soft sultry supple flesh required desired.
Inquire within.
Retroactively pterodactylly - reductively inductive
seductively lithe and limber.
Lucky ducky Samael (with)
Lilith makes them blush in Hell.
With legs so long
and smoky thong.
If this ain't right,
Let's do what's wrong.
I am hafway between your arms
and a blooded chasm
separated by crystal bars
that I can't even punch
to gain the slightest satisfaction
just a numb void
Your lips beg for company
the space filled with burden
distance and regret
a flower still folded
waiting for the beams of dawn
that will never shine
Anticipation lingers
in the small of your back
the hunter in your posture
with the eyes of a nymph
but so tired, straining
days have grown long
Neither of us can help it
lost, crippled and illusioned
always chasing fox-fires
throwing off our trails
to get to the prey first
never tasting that joy
I see it end, each time I drive
down that road, past those same
trees and rocks and rivers,
etched—engraved—
in memory of days spent driving
along route 56. North towards
the liquor store, or south
to Allen's Falls; and sometimes both.
And we'd sit on the cliffs, or at the bottom
with our feet in the clear pools,
and pass the day in a smoke-haze;
with blown glass and cheap beer.
The climb back up, stumbling-clumsy,
balancing bottles and cans
with hand-and-foot holds,
with roots and rocks and dirt.
Then back on 56 to Market Street,
to Casbah, the bar where we get in free
because we know the owners, from Morocco;
and DJ Scorpio; and the bartenders; and the bouncers.
Each laugh and drink, the neon flashing—
night's music, mixed together with blood
on broken glass and the glowing end
of every cigarette.
We stumble home
through freezing 4 am rains;
fall to our knees in the mud and snow.
Laughing.
Morning, under harsh halogen,
the taste of night-old liquor
on our breath. Coffee gripped
in hung-over hands—
our heads pounding
with every lectured word.
We grin, all teeth and groggy aches—
"Wild freakin' night."
But 56 ends, and splits—
and I keep driving. 3, 30, 28, 9—
despite the urge to turn around
and drive back
to the liquor store, and Allen's Falls, and Casbah,
and the broken glass, and the 4am rains,
and the hungover halogen,
and the road.
And we are lost
in silhouettes
of silence, blue,
and gold.
This morning, on my way out, I saw you,
mockingbird, on top of dead bramble, cawing
as if you belonged to a murder of crows. For more
than one minute, we stared, standing
no further than two friends.
I could see the stroma of your irises, every fiber
folding within, the color
hazel. Belonging
to the family Mimidae, passerine
of the class, Aves, your kind, The Northern Mockingbird
of marked white wings and gray plumage, black
stripes, ascended tail--I look at you,
"how original."
And if all I said were true, you may remember me
when I forgot my umbrella
at a shelterless stop, and you stood
only a foot above some sign,
unafraid as if
I wasn't human.
Like a mythic bolt shunned from Heaven,
I can feel you, like a fog.
Dark and heavy, furious and energetic,
My ears are tuned to your broken silence.
You're screaming at me, in tongues of quiet,
Wrapping my soul in a bottomless chasm.
My grace is stolen; my legs are broken.
And your power over me has been dully noted.
Like the Jabberwocky, you are quick and deadly-
I can feel myself breathing the words.
But they are swallowed; torn to pieces,
Replaced with your own howls of grieving.
"You were mine!" You shriek, the hawk within you rising.
It dives swiftly through the air upon red-hot wings.
"I know," I breathe, so soft and so weak,
While my mouse-spine breaks beneath your talons.
"But you couldn't have me forever."
You are an angel cast out of heaven then.
Your flaming wings turn deep and dark; smoldering.
And suddenly you find yourself at my level.
Your wings are fake, you realize.
You are exactly like me.
The fog of your rage dissipates, replaced with-
Pouring, drenching rain. It seeps into my bones.
"Nothing is forever," you admit simply. Your face is ashen;
Eyes without soul. "But we were." As if-
You're still clinging to the light that once was.
Before the fog.
My lips crack as they stretch upwards. I feel the pain,
But I don't think about it. The rain is numbing.
The light is gone.
"You need to realize that."
The wings of righteousness you once carried,
So proudly - they're now bare - skeletons.
Meat washed clean from the bones. From the rain.
And you cannot believe it.
The tale of fairies is over. The book is finished;
The chapter is done, and the pages are closed;
Pressed together forever in Time's cruel fingers.
And you realize it. The rain and your tears become one.
Like a caged animal who just noticed it had become free,
I turn and my own wings spread out wide from beneath the rain.
They are already black; I am already ruined.
But they will lift me up just fine.
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"Edison would roll in his grave to see the light that you gave."
Be sure to be as comfortable as possible
This is what you ever wanted to be
To do or represent
This is your own show
Your special stage
Don't let it fade
Make it shine
Succeed.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
who cares about anxiety?
Just ignore it and do what you need to do
That's always how things work
you can just ignore them and do things and then nothing happens but stars in your brain,
supernovas of dazzling white-hot pain shot through the cerebral cortex.
what the **** are you doing?- why do you care so much about how you look?
stop caring
YOU'RE JUST LAZY
and if you didn't whine so much you'd be able to do everything you wanted,
you big baby.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
or the belly of a whale.
Heavy, dark, and wet.
And huge.
Open and all consuming.
Falling whispered white-noise.
A blanket—No—
A sheet
draped over concrete and glimmer-grass.
Trails on trees and rooftops.
Drops. Fat and thick and heavy.
Tumble against windows.
Wind and rain, a wave
Of movement through the leaves.
twitching
shaking
shivering
A breath
stillness
for an instant
and a shimmering
a breath
the people here walk aimlessly.
Light does not go past
the first layer in the sky
and it rains
only slightly. Pink winds
and black clouds
settle on dead
and purple horizons.
Even in this town,
I walk like a stranger.
I see a woman cross the street
in a blue skirt, so short
the end of it would ride down
to only half the thigh. Her sleeveless top
hugs her chest
so gentle
but firm enough. I can see
the outlines of her bra. I could imagine
it was not there, noticed then
how beautifully her breasts would hang
like the scales of a balance without
the weights. Her stoic look
behind those plastic shades
is like every building and every weather
happening down this road. There's noise
here, for sure, but all feels too quiet
as if only empty vessels, stones and
dimensional facades occupy
this space, still with much more
to fill. Even her—
I’m sorry,
but she is not special. Every time
I look at a woman, it is only the face
of suffering I see.
And I don't see anything else.
It aint easy, but it sure aint hard neither,
Black lace gloves no prints from the fingers.
Take a sip.
Sip it slow.
Bubbly. Bubbly.
Must've come from France but that bread sure tastes Cuban.
Loosin. Losing.
Crack of dawn, slittage yawn,
If you're still shootin dice we'll gamble on.
Spin the chair, flip the stool.
I give a **** about your tool,
I chew school.
the illustrious glow baffles the mind,
bright autumn shades scattered timidly throughout the landscape,
vividly percepted as real,
but almost thought as fake,
the sunset horizon overloads the senses
For how we are all alone.
The sands are a metaphor;
For how the ocean left us.
The rain is a metaphor;
For how we dole out our love.
Surrounded by stars every bit as bright
Dry, sunkissed and among our equals.
Rarely, but freely.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
Wither and weep
my heart does, skip a beat
were i to dare
pine over your reflection
Spitter and sputter,
my breast set aflutter
were i to own your heart.
Alas, love isn't about possession
nor unsubtle obsession
it's about being free,
And i would say i loved you best
by not loving you,
No, not at all.
Sig courtesy of DOLZero
[82/360] Custom Cube
Blog about the Custom Cube
Why mi keyboard no working?
da blk cble in
errytang is on.
de clikar iz wurking.
dat porn machine haz drivarz
wut iz gon on?
o w8, numb lock in on.
scumbag
Want Higher Level Card Evaluation? Visit Diestoremoval.com
The day he turned six
His parents granted his wish
He got the big red bike
That he had always liked
On the first ride he slipped,
Lost his balance and flipped
Smacked the cement underneath,
Broke his nose and some teeth
But Junior did not quit
After taking that hit
He got back on his feet,
And got the bike off the street
Practice makes perfect, as we say
So Junior practiced the rest of the day
He soon will be the real deal
Riding his bike on two wheels
(Click to enter the Frox Experience)
About Frox: for nearly 10 years, Frox has been helping women look good and feel great in easy-fit, mix-and-match, and work-to-weekend with just a few pieces by helping them make the right choices when it comes to clothing and accessories.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
“We’ve been searching and searching, yet we’ve still not found Onanore. I suggest we retire this expedition.” -Anonymous
Let us go then to that place
where tides recede
to and fro, rocking gently
in the night.
Where calm had chased the squall,
let us speak with the sea if it did so
sigh, and ask, have you seen Onanore?
And on the ocean and its hands—
the little fingers of foam
touching the shores and our feet—
let us trade, hold them to their word
on the business of their brine
carried from several nations
of countries irrelevant (they're not Onanore),
investigating the matter over sand
using massive sieves and sifters,
shovels and shovels and shovels
and shoulders for those shovels
to mark the grains we find more interesting
than some.
We'll let imaginings take hold
when we talk to minerals,—
you, El Dorado, and you, sweet Atlantis—
shake our heads without tears
when we pick up a speck of salt, whispering
(oh Carthage, how you grow no more),
telling stories of the stars, each one
a life of a denizen in a day of Onanore.
We'll do this in turns, even though
we know this shore is not the one
we're looking for. More likely,
the men are now mud,
the women been seized by some
raging nimbi, and the children, turned
into a rolling wind, upon a roiling
current. As the statues and homes,
towers of Onanore are reduced
to lonely mountains, scarred
so indistinguishable, they could be
any other lump of stone,
(breathless and cold)—
A/N: The poem can be read in two ways--one where the lines in the parenthesis are read along with the poem, or one where the parenthesis are read inside the reader's head, but not spoken.
I didn't know you well, but I felt your impact
You made sure the right tree always fell
You always spoke the truth, never smack
in your future adventures, I fare thee well
A hero too us all
so said to see him fall
May life treat you well Not (just) Someone
scumbag
Want Higher Level Card Evaluation? Visit Diestoremoval.com
the girl the concept the muse
i am constantly changing
but she remains the same
look in my dreams of metamorphosis
and i wish i would stay the same
and i try
she is across an ocean
i float through it weightless like
i don't exist like
i am a construction
and once i reach her through the night i touch her
and she jumps back as though my hand scalds her
and she says "the princess is in another castle"
and she jumps out the window and
her crown shatters
later she is at the top of a tall tower
and i look up from the ground and want her
and i try to soar to her
but there is something inviolable
blocking me within me so
i open the door
there are stairs and i walk up them
spiraling treacherous
each step a searing jolt of agony
my head tires as i ascend
my spirit dim as i pretend that
i know what i'm doing
She is up at the top
i walk as far as i can and then farther
and the spiral the staircase makes along the sides of the wall has a massive emptiness when you look towards the middle
that seems more and more enticing the longer
i walk
there is another door halfway up the tower
leading to a room suspended on a chain
a door i haven't seen before
and the door opens like it knows me
and there is someone there
moving back and forth between forms
they seem afflicted, disgusting, blind and
i don't know what to do so
i run back to the stairs and up them
because my dream is at the top
but there are no barriers between us,
nothing but steps that take forever
my legs ache but i climb all the way up and
i open the door
she is there when i open the door
she is the one i want
but different somehow by proximity
i touch her hand and my blood runs cold
but she doesn't run away and
i turn into something i don't recognize and
i know i'm wrong so
i close my eyes and try
to feel better
but nothing works
nothing ever works
so
i back out of the room
and she just watches me
smiling in that way
and smirking in that way
she is everything i thought i wanted but
i close the door and walk backwards down the stairs
and go back to the room i left before and
i touch the horror
filled with wonder
and it resolves itself and
i resolve myself and
i am suspended in a room in the middle of nowhere but
i have everything
as long as i can accept myself I love
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Deep in Hell by sticky slathered cherry well sits
Azazel with eviscerated turtle shell bell.
Singing ringing. Dunced
and dinging-dong.
Samael smokes Satan's bong.
Boiling bubble
on stacked-up rubble. Barbeque
marinated, emaciated,
d
e
s
e
crated.
Pull-deeeeeeep
Zzzip—rrrrip,
taste strong and long. Apollyon carries along,
Panty-raids for Lilith's…(thong).
Where Lucifer sits on his throne, made of stone and
t
w
i
s
t
e
d
b
o
n
e.
Alone.
Requested - invested - in the dark, Ghenna's park bench
Hell's mensch serves randy sandy candy-coated pomello.
Strawberry-[heart/heat] seek the beat and wiggle like jello—
Hello! Good Sir Beelzebub!
Dub rub rubber ducky piping ganga to the tub.
Roiling soiling boiling, sticky thickly sickly slathered
berry-gumdrop soup. Loup back.
To Lilith joining lucky Samael.
Oh! How her legs go on to Hell.
Soft sultry supple flesh required desired.
Inquire within.
Retroactively pterodactylly - reductively inductive
seductively lithe and limber.
Lucky ducky Samael (with)
Lilith makes them blush in Hell.
With legs so long
and smoky thong.
If this ain't right,
Let's do what's wrong.
I promise ill stop tomorrow,
when my fingers stop melting.
Flip the script, count up to ten,
here it come well go agai
.
Again.
That was playful punctuation.
A backup plan.
Orisus is still black as the sun in the night in Japan.
And then again.
And back again.
Again.
and a blooded chasm
separated by crystal bars
that I can't even punch
to gain the slightest satisfaction
just a numb void
Your lips beg for company
the space filled with burden
distance and regret
a flower still folded
waiting for the beams of dawn
that will never shine
Anticipation lingers
in the small of your back
the hunter in your posture
with the eyes of a nymph
but so tired, straining
days have grown long
Neither of us can help it
lost, crippled and illusioned
always chasing fox-fires
throwing off our trails
to get to the prey first
never tasting that joy
We were the hunted
I will neither sing incoherences like Ono
Nor write lyrics for Bono
A love letter for the loved person
A warning for the world
A bit of patience
Poetry and Trance
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
When alone
In need of a fight
Alone at night
I am poor of sight
When I'm alone I walk at night
Thinking things I should not think
I am always looking down
For a stone to kick
When I'm alone
I'm aware of you
I always run
I never show myself
When I'm alone
I'm alone at dark
Hiding secrets
From the daylight.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Weathern, the worn calused tip
corsed scum of the body,
the forth seeing the salves of purity,
still blind gnashing for some feeling of worth,
the forth as willed forthwhile,
ever for consumation,
for sustaining such cancer,
the scum, bacterial, the maline
I see it end, each time I drive
down that road, past those same
trees and rocks and rivers,
etched—engraved—
in memory of days spent driving
along route 56. North towards
the liquor store, or south
to Allen's Falls; and sometimes both.
And we'd sit on the cliffs, or at the bottom
with our feet in the clear pools,
and pass the day in a smoke-haze;
with blown glass and cheap beer.
The climb back up, stumbling-clumsy,
balancing bottles and cans
with hand-and-foot holds,
with roots and rocks and dirt.
Then back on 56 to Market Street,
to Casbah, the bar where we get in free
because we know the owners, from Morocco;
and DJ Scorpio; and the bartenders; and the bouncers.
Each laugh and drink, the neon flashing—
night's music, mixed together with blood
on broken glass and the glowing end
of every cigarette.
We stumble home
through freezing 4 am rains;
fall to our knees in the mud and snow.
Laughing.
Morning, under harsh halogen,
the taste of night-old liquor
on our breath. Coffee gripped
in hung-over hands—
our heads pounding
with every lectured word.
We grin, all teeth and groggy aches—
"Wild freakin' night."
But 56 ends, and splits—
and I keep driving. 3, 30, 28, 9—
despite the urge to turn around
and drive back
to the liquor store, and Allen's Falls, and Casbah,
and the broken glass, and the 4am rains,
and the hungover halogen,
and the road.
And we are lost
in silhouettes
of silence, blue,
and gold.
This morning, on my way out, I saw you,
mockingbird, on top of dead bramble, cawing
as if you belonged to a murder of crows. For more
than one minute, we stared, standing
no further than two friends.
I could see the stroma of your irises, every fiber
folding within, the color
hazel. Belonging
to the family Mimidae, passerine
of the class, Aves, your kind, The Northern Mockingbird
of marked white wings and gray plumage, black
stripes, ascended tail--I look at you,
"how original."
And if all I said were true, you may remember me
when I forgot my umbrella
at a shelterless stop, and you stood
only a foot above some sign,
unafraid as if
I wasn't human.
-------
Like a mythic bolt shunned from Heaven,
I can feel you, like a fog.
Dark and heavy, furious and energetic,
My ears are tuned to your broken silence.
You're screaming at me, in tongues of quiet,
Wrapping my soul in a bottomless chasm.
My grace is stolen; my legs are broken.
And your power over me has been dully noted.
Like the Jabberwocky, you are quick and deadly-
I can feel myself breathing the words.
But they are swallowed; torn to pieces,
Replaced with your own howls of grieving.
"You were mine!" You shriek, the hawk within you rising.
It dives swiftly through the air upon red-hot wings.
"I know," I breathe, so soft and so weak,
While my mouse-spine breaks beneath your talons.
"But you couldn't have me forever."
You are an angel cast out of heaven then.
Your flaming wings turn deep and dark; smoldering.
And suddenly you find yourself at my level.
Your wings are fake, you realize.
You are exactly like me.
The fog of your rage dissipates, replaced with-
Pouring, drenching rain. It seeps into my bones.
"Nothing is forever," you admit simply. Your face is ashen;
Eyes without soul. "But we were." As if-
You're still clinging to the light that once was.
Before the fog.
My lips crack as they stretch upwards. I feel the pain,
But I don't think about it. The rain is numbing.
The light is gone.
"You need to realize that."
The wings of righteousness you once carried,
So proudly - they're now bare - skeletons.
Meat washed clean from the bones. From the rain.
And you cannot believe it.
The tale of fairies is over. The book is finished;
The chapter is done, and the pages are closed;
Pressed together forever in Time's cruel fingers.
And you realize it. The rain and your tears become one.
Like a caged animal who just noticed it had become free,
I turn and my own wings spread out wide from beneath the rain.
They are already black; I am already ruined.
But they will lift me up just fine.
cutting the chill november air
coal-black feathers fall
as the crone fades into mist
echoes of memory
her spirit drifts, wanders
lingers in the woodcutter's axe
by the ancient paths marked by no tombstones
only gnarled roots
searching for the home
shattered timbers rot in the soil
bones bleached by wind lingering
old crow's ghost cries
for the village that once was
for the heat of our breath
for a forgotten time
when we could forget