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The Cycle of PassionNever knowing eyes never did haunt us
’Tis our own ditty which fails to daunt us;
The amorous rose or the lovebird’s lustre
Leaves but two shades for a season’s fluster,
Yet the poet’s pen is perchance guided
With rabid romance, nature unprovided -
For summer songs are bare conversation
Betwixt life and long winter’s predation:
Pale thirst for passion or higher power
Quenches its quaff in the quiet hour,
The soul’s tragedy is in demanding
Liberty lost from body remanding
Creation’s cold woes and callous joys, cannot grace
Vanity’s visage or the selfsame face,
In vain, we swallow the daily smother
To love ourselves, we love another.
Sleep Well, My SoulSleep well, my soul, the light has passed
’Tis dark, this closing hour,
Rest in peace, sweet life, at last
Let your toils awake a flower.
Dream deep, asleep, of each roving wraith
Which sought a home in thee
And sigh a little, for the wasted faith
Which were born of you and me.
And smile beneath the mourning ground
As the world clasps morning’s glory,
For the moon still dotes the earth around
And the sun gilds another story.
And then, in a squall of rain and rue
Lament life’s sole severance;
For god and men, we wept them true,
Slighting our Reverence.
The Fall of EpithilinonI
Let no man speak of wars whence
No answer graced our call,
Let man remember gods thence
Gods, watchful of our fall;
Speak in silenced sighs, men,
Dead men hither sleep,
No flag here flails, amen, amen!
Who can ever beweep
Our brethren in the deep.
Frightened colours breached the sky,
The church bells played a dirge;
The bustling hills and vales so nigh
In crimson rage did merge,
Archers with crescents held high
Keen arrows fell like sin,
The portcullis in sorrow, shy
Interred our fathers in
The last grave of our kin.
Wailed the night in thunder blare;
The mangonels did come,
Lonely trumpets singed the air
When Earth ravished our home;
The eastern tower, wasting wear
For a trebuchet did bow,
Fallen stone and ballista bare
Broke its stony vow,
As the beadle mopped his brow.
Mildly armoured, men at arms
Stormed the brazen fray,
Howled the castle’s cold alarms:
Ladder men up the brae!
Blazed in ire the fields and farms:
The winter’s yield was spent;
A Slice of EntropyLife is not form or symmetry or a stack of hours
on a dustless shelf
falling, hovering, floating, flailing
feeling comfortably numb
in a lover’s grasp
is the autumn of an ancient anarchy
knowing all these affections are temporary
and as they cease, so shall I
from a star to a star
streaks the dye of the unending night
shedding colour on what is alive
basking in the ambivalence of creation
wondering what is the great purpose
of existence, survival, procreation;
Why must life go on?
life goes on
fantasy, excess, poverty
of objective, of reason
naught lasts a season,
gravity is the do all end all
in the cosmos, time rules god.
Wishes and wills, thoughts, sentiments, impulses,
cannot slow that unforgiving arm,
or plug that black hole of impendence,
victory and defeat
will meet at square 1;
the cheers and the jeers will die away
in the violence of that
Life – 0. Death – 0.
Vita incerta, mors certissima.
My Knight in Formal ArmourNobody loves Monday, but she was not Nobody. Monday mornings meant a host of official emails, a swarm of new themes to gossip about and a cup of tea that couldn’t quite wake her from the torpor instilled by the weekend’s laxness. Her boss would come up to her desk and take a progress report of her current projects and by the end of the day she would have to type it out send over once again. She would often order takeaway to brighten the fated day but it did little to change things when you have to be professional while eating your fricassee or your fries. A potpourri of “social synergy” events often took place on Mondays, but to know that that was another excuse to boost employee efficiency conveyed a heart of emptiness.
She worked on seventh grade textbooks, filtering through its content with the keen eye one develops as an editor and looked forward to that first cup of tea that would give her a few minutes to stare at the day’s excited sensex. The cup of
MasksEach of us wears a different mask
For daily use, and every task.
Knowing that, with the right face
We might fit in around the place.
Are they a real part of who we are?
Merely an aspect to help us get far.
Does the truth of the mask cover the lie
Make you feel good, or prompt you to cry.
They say that a mirror reflects in a different way
Dependant on the viewer to prompt what to say
But this simple saying hides the most obvious fact
That your own mirror image reflects your desperate act.
Its not always clear who is hurt most
The strangers, the friends, or you; the host.
Is this charade worth all the pain
When it’s not your true self that stands to gain.
Only we know whether it is through fear
That prompts us to make these false visages appear
But once they are there for all to see
Do you only become that which you appear to be?
The SilenceIt strikes without clear warning
Cares not if night or mid-morning
Makes the warm hearted cold
Distinguishes not the young from the old
Its manner is capricious
Universal, not malicious
Conveys peace to those who wane
Transforms pleasure into pain
Brings an end to beginnings
Collects all of life’s winnings
Turns future into past
Changes first into the last
Defeats all the best defences
Inexorably it advances
Feared by many a soul
Yet for others, it’s their goal
Incapable of hate, though hated
Accepted as fate by the fated
The final act of our birth
Returns us all to the earth
The silence will fall on our day
There is no stopping nature’s way
None can escape its sensuous pull
So live each precious moment to the full
Rubai Of SorrowAs midnight becomes a memory, do you lust
For dawn's caress, for your body to become dust?
Do you often lie awake haunted by nightmares
That make you doubt all that you see as fair and just?
FearI see you fear
I know why you are here
Joyless robber in the night
Breeder of that unknown fright
I hear your voice
Not that I have other choice
Those mocking words you use to taunt
In my quaking heart they always haunt
I feel you close by
Ready with another lie
Know the bitterness of your pill
My confidence you seek to kill
I know your game
But not what you seek to gain
Destroyer only, you can’t create
The mother of unreasoned hate
I live with you
Daily told your point of view
Disabled me from golden youth
Distorted with corrupted truth
You hold me back
Focussed on what I lack
Sought to sell my value short
In your net you think I’m caught
You listen to me
What you want can never be
Though with you I’m doomed to live
Never an inch to you I’ll give
You have no power
This is not your finest hour
Those tainted words I will fight
On this darkness, I’ll shine a light.
You see me fear
Understand what I hold dear
And know that though you make me shake
I shall nev
Writers of LifeIn life we are the creators,
of new joys and life.
In spoken or written words,
In reality and in fiction,
we are nature's renovators.
We follow our own destiny,
in the path of pure evil and good.
We slip up, pick up, laugh, cry
to sounds of our only love.
Among the ones who bring joy,
bring laughter and sorrow,
that imprints on people's hearts..
Is simply an orange fox,
who is heart's killer dart.
While our hearts are struck,
his head is in the clouds.
While our breaths are forgotten,
his feet are in the sky.
He dreams of fortune, fame,
to win this true game.
He only dreams,
to have it stay in the seams.
And so he writes.
He writes of his life.
He draws those identities,
who put joy and misery in his mind.
He colors the pictures of events,
who hides treasures and pain to find.
For finishing touches,
he adds top joys in story world.
To have his life on pages,
colored only in the mind,
is hard to comprehend.
No matter what he denies,
hot to trotinside out
this years' toy
hot to trot
On Helplessness and AntipathyWhat of this love in which kind hearts know no bounds?
Walking on roads; drained, stained, without hopes and dreams -
What is there to wish for? There are none, it seems
Who will know of felicity's serene sounds.
This life... is worth living? held back like a hound -
To be battered, bruised, always flowing in streams.
What of this love in which kind hearts know no bounds?
To care for those we love, but none hear our screams?
Alas, such woe was never meant to hold grounds -
These stains are not to be known, nor to be seen.
Triumph against these odds, happiness supreme!
For all this we are known, but are never crowned
What of this love in which kind hearts know no bounds?
To care for those we love, but none hear our screams?
pencilsif life was a pencil,
my eraser would be gone.
all used up,
but the lead would live on.
it would make it's mistakes,
but couldn't take them back.
so the lead would live on,
until it cracked.
RIP ChastityI hate the feeling
Of being pressed
Into a world
Where I'm something less
I'm not a person
Just a conquest
But I'm not buying
I'm not the rest
"No" means no not
"You should persist"
I'm not the next name
You'll check off your list
If there's anything
You should be learning from this:
I'm not a target
Can't hit what you can't miss
Sonnet XVIIIThere goes another hour;
We have too many to keep.
To hoard away time and sleep
Ha! But we have the power!
Aye, though the sun may glower
In the evenings he will reap,
His warm gaze will lastly sweep
Amidst each field and flower
And perhaps he is thinking,
Though I cannot tell for sure,
What we think is certain cure
For all the defeats tasted,
People with clocks are clinking:
Another hour wasted.
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
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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