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YouThrow back the years, throw back the tears;
Erase the counter of your life,
Delete the fears, delete the cheers;
Strike out the chronicle of strife.
The truth evoked, the guile revoked
After the math of man is through;
Your fortunes yoked, your failings cloaked;
In nobody's view, who are you?
Rusty CageDon't perch me upon a cotton cloud
Or quarter me by the country lake;
No fields of grain inspire me now,
Nor misty hues above the creek.
I have seen too many daffodils
And belle bluebells too pall my soul,
These mockingjays do not arouse
A drop of woe, a drip of joy.
Instead set me off upon a barge
Where the shadows meet, by day or night;
Off to a shade where silence unites
With her soundless charms of quietude.
And leave my haunt with little tint
A monochrome wind, a fickle farewell,
And write to me once every fortnight
From the confines of your recent grave.
And here let there be no robin's song,
No blackbird's lay, no warbler's hymn,
Leave me be in my rusty cage:
The throne of human creation.
A SongA bugle to the weary ear
Removes all dreams of kingdom come,
Recedes the soldier's fallen tear
And bellows his heart with the drum,
As clamors shield on pointed spear
And sings a euphony of home,
Each dying troop with closing breath
Attends a symphony of death.
A lover's welter and his woe
Seeks a violin's weeping strain,
For melody melts spite and snow
Which haunts the sinking, swooning swain,
And thus forgiven, flame and foe
Which brewed the draught of lover's bane,
Ascends the tune, a breath of June
A heart in summer 'neath the lune.
An oboe wakes a human note
In crystal seas where saints have drowned,
A grand piano did once quote
A lay which infancy had found,
While tyrants reign and malice dote
A peace will shelter us in sound,
For what is life without a song?
An empty sheet to play along.
GoodbyesA shy hello begins the tale,
Two strangers in a play,
A quiet word, a moment's care
Brings back the mirth of May,
And then a smile, a borrowed laugh,
Perhaps a happy tear,
Life's woes are few, its gifts renew,
But they don't last, my dear.
Such weeping I have often seen;
So many fruitless tears,
And yet a question I have asked
Met silence through the years.
Alone the crave, alone the grave;
All pain is pleasure's loan,
We come with naught, and thus depart,
Tell me, what do we own?
We are wildflowers in the breeze
A breath of father time,
And in the hue, in wanton dew
Perhaps there is some rhyme,
And for a spell, we briefly brush
And love and live in vain,
But one by one we must wave on
To never meet again.
Sonnet VDear latent poet of this lifeless age
You are truth's last infallible device,
Though your work may remain an unseen page
Verity requires your watchful eyes.
Alas! Your life may never shelter peace,
Nay, peace seeks harborage in ignorance,
But your days so filled with candid release
Are truer than truth's own truthful penance.
Imagine no wreaths, for you shall receive none,
Save laurels of slander as truth's sole squire,
And in life, none shall know of things you have done,
Only to read your name 'neath the skyward spire.
Yet that enemy time, will be your friend
And past infinity truth will transcend.
In MemoriamThe guardian ghosts, ghosts of our great men gone
await above, await your advent's song,
The skylark's cry has vexed this vivid morn;
her notes denote in notes that know no wrong.
The ample ale of amber allium art
is milked by million minions of her shine,
Her radiance reigned, rained ray drops dart by dart
on fallowed fields, fields flood with floral wine.
Lie you now, now lie you near no night;
The calling candles clear collected scars,
The sun still sates the sweat of sheltered sight;
You belong, belong by better stars.
InnocenceAs these dry creases cleave your cloak
And seasons past rebate your yolk,
To time, do not look forth and ask
For time; another velvet mask,
Instead applaud his youthful face
In every child; his peace returns
Astute that brimful, lively vase
Reserves its brew for marble urns.
Yet for a spell she hid your eyes
From mirrors, winters and disguise;
Such days were spent in ceaseless toil
To purge her blindfold and each coil
Which did protect you from tort sights,
Uneven senses, ample dearth,
But what her purpose truly cites
Gave everything its waning worth.
The ticking clock, a trifle thence:
A deafness we call innocence.
Behind Closed Doorsbehind closed doors,
past padlocks old,
confined latch bolts,
and deadlocks cold;
the hooks still hold
and stick the hole
and often house
your naked soul.
War Woundthere's a war wound in my chest
that I cradle in my heart
and nurse it with parables
never grows up.
sometimes I feed it vanities,
a glass of Scotch or two
but in the morning's residue
it reflects no summer truths.
there's a war wound in my chest
which sought shelter in my soul
now it lies as an attic masterpiece
for the years to unfold
the colours have aged with me
rubric to rust to puce
and this work of art upon my heart
for the artist's eyes.
there's a war wound in my chest
which fell our company
but I who saw the shot and shell,
know it well indeed.
for he assigned us nameless,
no rank, no class or creed,
but then the lance of simple chance
wiped out our battery.
and I who fell for our comradery
did no favours for thee
I beheld the appetite of infancy
and lived for mortality.
The Torturing DreamSoft... her skin. He knew it would be before he even knew her name.
Silent... the breath he can't catch after his gasp when she said 'Hello gorgeous. Let's go make some trouble.'
Soft... the sheets on the bed in a room he'd never seen, but was happy to be inhabiting.
Silent... the arch of her back and the tears on her face, oxytocin induced...
Hard... the concrete he sees when he awakes from the dream
Cold... the skin on his chest where she laid her head seconds before
Hard... the sound of him lighting a cigarette in the quiet room
Cold... his breath when he exhales the first drag of another day
because i have toimpaled
& wreaking havoc on these
more than endorphins &
planes out of control
pretending that if
instilled in bedsheets
Tribute to Edgar Allan Poe...The dark daunting whispers of
bounced off the whitewashed walls of my
And shook me from my resting-
And stole my soul back into the world-
the rest of the lonely dreaming world-
of trouble; chore; of melancholy burden bore.
I paced the floor to and frow;
my heavy awkward steps
slightly out of sync.
My oafish unfacile feet-
my entire body!-
wanted and wished
with the dancing shadows.
To twirl in adept unison
with the tinkling of footfalls
lightly treading upon the tufted floor.
However, my timing was as raw as my talent.
And as for my balance-
Could not be ignored.
And so I weaved ‘round the black withering forms.
Profound finesse: a fake façade I wore
whilst my lower limbs quivered and quaked,
and to my knees-
I hit the floor.
With faltering fiery flame;
I accomplished poise
upon fluctuating knees:
on the blanched floor.
My will to rise aga
Life ItselfThe only time I smiled today
Was when I thought of dying
And how good I am at lying
Each and every single day.
I've got a box of painkillers
They sleep right by my bed
For when all I see is red,
They'll numb it into darkest white.
I've tried talking to people,
But I can't word what I want to say
And maybe I like living this way,
Knowing that I'll die soon.
I know I'm self-destructive
My crosshatch skin screams it
But inside there's a little bit
That still aches to be saved.
I've tried before and I'll try again
To put my worthlessness away
But fate forced me to stay;
Death's a bitch like that.
Life makes me want to die
Yet it won't let me leave
Or grant me a reprieve
From that which it's made me hate;
It swallows you whole,
Exceeds your control.
Apprehends your soul,
Until it has taken its toll.
It’s an overwhelming feeling.
That is made to be appealing
And you can’t help revealing,
The doubts you are concealing.
It’s an undefined dimple
And a well known jingle.
But only when you are single
Does it all seem so simple.
It is one of life’s many gifts,
That empowers and uplifts
And can lead you adrift.
Should you miss your shift.
It is impossible to describe it.
It is impossible to fight it.
Because once it is ignited
And once you have tried it.
It will take your independence.
You will become used to its presence.
You will become addicted to its essence
And include it at the end of your every sentence.
It exists even in the hearts of its haters.
It is a taste even they will savour
And although its duration wavers.
There will never be a feeling that is greater.
Everything I have said and more.
I am merely repeating what you already know.
The one who loved you the most (Goodbye)I suppose that i played all my cards
And still it has ended like this
but somehow im able to smile
even though you chose to be his
Do you remember not to long ago
We hung out all day at the park
you told me to "never stop writing"
and one day id be loved for my art
Well this is my last one to you
Anymore would fail to reach your ears
And it hurts to have to say goodbye
After all of our prosperous years
But I suppose that love really changes us
Hell, you changed me more everyday
You shown me what it's like to have a purpose
and to not be the one cast astray
But through all this I still find a smile
Because i know now that this is your choice
And there is nothing i can do to change that
Nothing 'cept the power of God's voice...
But Now as i take my leave
And the tears start to reach the floor
Don't cry, just remember me always
As the one who loved you the most...
You're Losing MeI lost you and you’re losing me,
And from day one I could see,
That you and I were never to be.
Some things are wrong, some things are right,
You can inside me fire ignite,
And the flames can blind me with their light,
But I know all; I feel all, I see all in the night.
What costs we are paying we don’t know,
Maybe it is the right way to go,
Maybe I’ll fall apart or maybe I will succeed,
Maybe to happiness this all will lead.
I am sad,
I am mad,
And I’m glad
That you are gone,
And I am left forever alone.
At least I am free and I’m nocturnal,
I know this will not be eternal.
I'm Just SorryCan't tell why you're still here.
I only bring out your deep fear.
Constantly near panic attack.
Focusing on what you lack.
So afraid that I'll go away.
Why do you want me to stay?
You deserve more than me.
Really, what do you see?
Trying to be better for you.
I don't know what I can do.
I'll try whatever I can.
I'm just sorry for who I am.
Museshe was an immaculate understanding of beauty
and made art blush a thousand times,
and the painter's brush
and the sculptor's spurl
could never quite possess her,
even in their minds.
she retired to Colmar and Vienna
never resting, never testing
the waters of time,
although they say she adored Florence
and left more men doting
than Tuscan mothers did bear,
and Cupid wept all of Styx
when his noxious darts
fluttered not lips or hearts.
she chanced upon Zhou in Zhaoge
and left his soul in want of want,
and all his queens could not delight
the wanton thirst of Jahangir.
and so pleasured yet, and yet untouched,
the virgin maid of Gaia's cruor
witnessed the world upon Sleipner
and slept by mortal maidens all,
whispering into their quiet dreams:
a love for each, a love in reach,
and thus every man's fall from grace
began upon yearning that changing face.
there she hangs upon my wall,
all the passion of Ilium's scattered ashes,
all the virulent venom in Iago's gall,
all the enticing verse
How It Began"God, your two o'clock is here."
"I have a two o'clock?"
"He's been here since 7:45. I figured it's only polite to... sir."
God sighed. "Fine, send him in."
While He waited God cleared His desk of papers and blueprints; no need for outsiders to see His plans. Soon enough the door to His office opened and God stood, smiled, held out a hand towards one of the two visitor's chairs.
"God! Great stuff you're doing in sector 2-7-0! Great stuff!"
The man's hands were clammy, his handshake limp. Rumpled suit, porkpie hat, briefcase... oh Jes-- oh dear, a salesman. God's smile slipped a little but He soldiered on gamely. With luck He could shoo the poor guy away in a few minutes.
"So, what can I do for you?"
The man sat, briefcase across his knees. "Sector 2-7-0! Everyone's talking about it! What do you call it? Man and merman?"
"Man and woman, actually. And thanks. But we're pretty busy around here, and..."
"Oh! Right! No time for the wicked, eh?" The salesman winked and popped his briefcase,
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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