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AloneThere were dead leaves on the pavement again.
She walked head down, huddled into her coat (leather and wool, with a silver zip), moving between the glass buildings without looking up at them. The avenue was wide and almost empty, paved with bland white slabs and fallen-through business deals. A particularly sharp gust of wind caused her to shiver and tug her collar up around her neck, and push her dry knuckles deeper into her pockets.
There were shallow steps a little further on, and seemingly without noticing them, she glided down, and her pace became a little more brisk. A few small, dry leaves from one of the ornamental bushes lining the steps caught in the breeze caused by her passage, swirling, rather like dull brown confetti.
As she drew closer to the centre of the city, a few people passed the opposite direction, but she ignored their stares, tucking her chin into her chest. A few blocks further on, she turned and went through the plate glass doors of an office block.
Je Suis La NuitThe night belongs to me, in all its whispering shadows
I am the watcher, the seer, the stand-in-the-dark-and-knower
The darkness is the cloak around me, the rough ground my dance floor
I am the silence and the sudden laughter,
And the melancholy melody of the party you weren't invited to.
This is my kingdom, my house of evening adventures,
Full of the clink of wine glasses and the shouting of revellers
My manor, with its well of sorrow and alcohol
I see how the light slides from graffiti and love it,
I smell the smoke of the burning barbecue and smile,
In concrete ginels, behind green gardens.
The stars are my hair-jewels, the moon my fan
The fading reflections from office windows are my dresses
The lipstick I flaunt is the red of cars hurrying home,
My perfume, the river at the end of the day
I prowl without prey, in the shivering anticipation
At the wind-down, in the high before sleep
My spotlight is the amber moon, over bare branches and shingles
My people, my subjects,
Are the quie
Memr'y MereI look into the memr'y mere,
Set below the boughs of the old willow tree,
And once again I'm running through
The twilight meadow, laced with purple dusk
Where each flower and wild grass blade
Is gilded by the light of the falling sun.
The world silhouettes itself
Against the backdrop of the evening sky,
Bruise-and-rose, and painted with
The burning clouds in gold and jewel tones.
The soil was always rich here,
As though the shadows had been made earth,
And I could listen to the crickets singing softly
On the stems of dancing poppies,
Like the upturned silken skirts of fine ladies.
Before the stars turned their bright faces downwards,
I would stand, caught in the still moment
Before night began to unfurl its cloak,
And that was when the fireflies would rise,
And decorate the night with their own constellations.
Where they settled on my dress,
And gave me a skirt of green-gold luminescence,
I would cup my hands over them,
And look at my bones,
Illuminated through my paper-skin.
Th' Braw MountainsCome to the wild places, the high and lonely places.
Inhale beauty, in the form of icicle air and pine dust.
Touch it, the cold mountain soil, and rejoice.
Let the wind fill you and find the point inside all of us,
Where you reach out over the forest,
And fly without leaving the ground.
Sure and proud, like the eagles around you.
Let your hair lift and whip, flushing your cheeks
And awakening your bones. Spin at the peak of mountains,
Glorying in the cold clean height. Laugh for it.
And when you are tired from the air,
Come and rest on the rough hills, amongst the brown and gold gorse
And feel sunlight thaw the wind-seeds. Watch the loch and love it.
Not for the beauty but because it is there. The comforting age,
The bedrock of your soul.
Stand in the bitter river on sharp stones and know you live,
That the land loves you for its Maker's child.
Exult in the cold and the warmth and above all the immensity
Of the weight of the world around you.
Wrap the landscape around your body,
The Calling DrumsYou drum on my clavicles,
Like they are hollow bird-bones
And I feel the thud of fever
Reverberating through my throat.
This is the tangible pulse of love.
Down my breastbone and ribs,
The rhythm calls,
Setting my feet twitching,
Itching to dance.
Your fingers tattoo my spine
With whispered suggestions
And silk threads on my skin.
Pulling un-seeable angel wings
From my shoulder blades
And sending me spinning into open sky.
The 4 Steps of Getting Over HimWhen you walk away from
Someone you love,
You feel a thousand, tiny, iron hooks,
Attached to the spool of memory,
Dig into your heart
And pull it out through your back,
Cracking every rib and spine-bone
As you go.
And once you've got away,
You've got to clean the wound,
And plunge your heart into boiling water,
So it doesn't fester
And turn your head rotten.
After the kind of storm
That wails around the corners,
And up the stairs,
You can sit on your bed
And feel the hollowness
In your chest-cavity
Suck at your collarbones.
Once the salt rain has stopped
Stinging your eyes and echoing in your ears,
Go outside, and carry the emptiness
Until you feel your new heart
The DoppelgangerThe first time I saw the other girl, I was standing on one side of the high street. Because it was the end of September, and we were in Britain, it was raining, but the main bulk of water had passed before lunch, so all that was left was the kind of rain that's annoying in its intermittency.
I watched her look in both directions and then cross the road, stepping carefully through the pool of mingled rainwater and rainbow engine oil in the bus bay. She was unusual, not just because she wasn't carrying a handbag, or wearing a coat, but because she was dressed in a chain mail and leather dress, and leggings. The second strange thing was that no one else, and this was a busy street, even in the rain, gave her a second glance. Their gazes slid benevolently over her, like she was an endearing, but not unfamiliar, child. Her booted feet crunched over some shattered glass as she approached, and then the third strange thing happened.
As she got to within a few feet of me, she winked out of exis
They SayThey say "You are stupid."
Not just to me, but to anyone
Who has ever said "I will be free."
They say "You are powerless."
When we say "We will change the world."
They say, they say
Buckle down and make money
Belt up and be us
They say, "Give up"
They say "We are rich, you are poor
Give in already"
They say "Look up.
Don't you wish you were us?
Don't you know you never will be?"
And we look past them,
To the Universe, and think
That is mine
They say "You are tiny, in a big world
And we are large."
And I say:
Sonder (noun)Sonder (noun)
The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your ownpopulated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited crazinessan epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you'll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
Monument to a Ruined ManI see you now.
The magnificent velvet and silk flags of your name
Now fester and rot in tatters.
The ornate gold and jewels, now dull and blackened with age,
Hang limply from the brittle, yellowing scaffolds
Of your admiring subjects, their mouths gaping open in one last,
All loyalty long since disappeared.
And here you stand
Alone in the silence of your own undoing-
No longer a ruler, or even a man, but a shell-
The hands whose wizened palms I once worshipped
Have crumbled slowly into nothing.
Those lips, whose stately curve I once adored,
Now worn and cracked from centuries of smiling.
But your smiles were never intended for me.
How I longed for something more than
The cold, conceited gaze with which I was rewarded.
But time passed, your influence waned, and now you stare emptily
Searching in vain for your salvation.
And here, as your empire dies,
You fall to the ash and dust
And are swallowed by darkness
And whispers echo through the void:
This is your legacy.
Live to RiseAt long last the time has come. Tree are falling, skies are cracking.
Who has time for love or lust? Who has strength that we can trust?
No one. That's who. Not you or I. Not anyone. Not that man or she. That's right no one.
But if it be so and the world has end, then why is it wrong that we choose to be friends?
Can't I be glad that it's over and done? Can't I sing loud and shout to the skies, that my life is not over, we live to rise.
Now that we know that we are alive lets burn down the walls and tell everyone, the world is not over for we are alive. The world is not over, the world never dies.
Cold Heart ExodusNo other worldly tear can make me burn faster than you
My tear, let me hold you. I am so sick and I'm so weak.
Let me whisper my name into your cold heart and let it bleed into me.
For now I know, this elder exodus is nowhere near truth (it'll never be).
Only me, there's only me in this abyss. Only you will know!
There's only us, there's only you of us there's only two.
Let the wits flow. Let this feeling pass away with time.
Did you know that feeling lonely and content at the same time is a rare kind of happiness?
Now you know, so just leave me be! Leave me alone, I must be happy.
Cold Heart Exodus, I want to leave it all behind, I'm falling down
I can't stand. Don't breathe this toxicity. The water is stoned
Don't ever try to lie to me again. I won't even be there to hear you
Don't Let GoRestrained by insecurity, she is hard to love.
Her heart however, hides a passion unknown.
An unforeseen utopia, and still so much more.
The problem, huge hearts make easy targets.
The strategy is simple though, easy to learn.
Follow this formula and you'll find your forever.
Hold her tight through all of the happy times,
and the fighting and the anger, don't let go.
If you feel her falling take her hand in yours.
When you feel like she is letting go, catch her.
Protect her with your arms when she is scared.
When she is sad, especially then, don't let go.
Don't let her walk away, even if she wants to.
Bravery is an act, nobody wants to be alone.
It will take work, but the reward is her heart.
And she will treasure you, but don't ever let go.
Restless Nights in the Subconscious Wonderland
I prefer the shorter days
Caught in a daze, or lost in some dream.
In the sleepless world of slumber,
Where my subconscious plays roulette with ideas,
Shooting them point blank
into my suspended psyche...
Over the edge and into the deep end,
To find the abnormal of my being
from where my beliefs
sprout their way from spirits.
And through this too,
do I enjoy or suffer...
As never have I found rest within my dreams.
of meaningless cause is the disdain of discord.
As my dreams and nightmares are forever slaves to chance,
and the cracking whip engages them as I close my eyes.
I am forever reminded of the War between angels and demons
For they are resembled by the pleasant and horrid.
I never know the plots...
The endings are hardly ever seen,
and my memory is left in shambles.
Opened, my eyes return my to reality,
and bid thee farewell for now,
I do to my world of restless slumber.
The SongbirdIt was just before he turned
nine years old
that his mother bought the boy
a soft yellow songbird.
And that songbird
would sing the sweetest arias
and would melt away
the little boy's fears.
He loved that bird
and its beautiful melodies;
it was not a pet his mother had given him,
but a musician-
But as time wearied and withered away
(as time has tendency to do),
the boy found it harder and harder
to hear the splendid tunes
the boy could hear the bird no more.
At fifteen the boy's brain
was being ravaged by
a most monstrous cancer.
The doctors spared him his life,
but could not restore
what he had once had.
And so he was sent
to a school for the deaf and blind-
far from home and everything
he had ever known-
but he was allowed to take with him
his little songbird.
The boy was angry, though,
at Fate and God,
for he missed the bird's songs
he loved so much.
Sign language frustrated him even further,
he did not understand it
The Last Lie of SummerQuiet days, the overcast sky keeps
to itself, ignoring the living for weeks
at a time.
From half a state away-
you could hear trains roll through
towns like mine.
There is peace
and it can't be trusted
given to the first
This was the calm before the calm.
The man that is seen, but
"Tomorrow I will say hello to him."
But we are all too busy dressing healed wounds.
Stepping Over Leaves
And so I tried to hold your letters
the way you used to hold my hand;
fingers spaced between torn edges and
around undotted i's.
Guiding me away
from those gentle autumn leaves that
I had loved to crunch
so very much.
But instead, I stepped against the sunspots
of every promise you had broken
trying just to pull some meaning from a sentence
ending with "goodbye".
And when my eyes began to slide over the words you had misspelled,
I closed your note
and tore it into nothing.
Nothing but a sad reminder that once again you had cracked
like those gentle autumn leaves
that I had loved
so very much.
Children of AnguishOh, my little, stupid, ragtag people! Least and last. My frightened mob, defending little kingdoms, little dreams, whilst all around the universe is ticking, ticking. Bereft of horizon, bereft of God, building fragile walls between your heart and reality and propping them up with small hopes.
Tomorrow will be better, there will be sunlight and happiness and cake on the table again and no more crying salt water tears.
You who do not trust and are not trusted, you who turn from light to walk in the shadowed hinterlands- I love you! And yet you look at me with fear beneath the contempt, and turn me away with raised fists and shrieked curses.
Little people, small people, look to the skies. There is more, oh, there is more. But you keep your eyes on the dust, while I stand and gesticulate, crying for you to look up. You want to stay plodding, you want to not be brave, to stance like the dull stones in the desert, weeping sand.
You hide in the rubbish, in the dirt, afraid of being he
ReflectionsVal's pursuit led him to the foul beast's domain. The hollowed-out cavern reeked of blood and rancid meat. The dim light he had seen as he charged through the tunnel after the monster could now be identified: torches. Rows of mysteriously lit torches lined the walls of the huge cave. At its center was a substantially large labyrinth of mirrors.
He spotted the beast entering.
He spun his silver broadsword in his hand and hurried in behind it.
His garb was a simple blue and white crusader's leather with thick armored pads and reinforcing steel studs. Lightweight and flexible, but quite effective defense against blunt blows and – in a pinch – the slashing claws of the unholy spawn of the earth. All monster-hunters wore a similar variety in Val's experience. It would serve him well in these close quarters of the mirrored maze.
Right, left, forward, left, right he turned, always catching a glimpse of the beast's tail as he wove his way through the corridors. Every so often he sp
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More