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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
Instrumental nothingnessCapitalizing on the fears you hold inside so close
The ones you try to hide and run away from the most
From fake façades to false fronts the walls built so high
The entire world sees teary waters collect in reddish eyes
A sleeve is often meant to cover certain tender flesh
Yet this is where passions lay displayed for all the rest
It should be effortless to control a part of you
But why is it so difficult when emotions go askew
I know logic is folly and that I am no machine
So how does one control a fiery love lined passions unseen
Return of the Big IdeaThis is an age without big ideas
No absolutes and thus no fears
Nothing now 'to live or die for'
We supposedly believe no more
Yet in this age when we disagree
We tend at first
To assume the worst
And howl at each other's hypocrisy
And when we claim that we are right
Convinces much less
That disagreement need not hate incite
The road to hell is paved with good intentions
When good will arises this gets the mentions
And sincere beliefs are labelled as hatred
Despite any attempt at being good-natured
Can anything now be said without passion
And silencing a chance at open discussion?
In speaking of 'freedom of speech' and 'rights'
We believe so much it causes fights
KrutostLidé o mně povídají
že jsem krutá, zlostná žena.
Přála bych jim mnou se stát.
Pro lidi, co zklamali se,
zahořklost je přirozená.
Poznali jsme mnoho zrad.
Nestojím o vaše tváře,
pokrytectví, krutý chlad.
Nechte si své komentáře.
Nechte svùj jed odkapat.
Přátelství je velmi krásné.
Musíme si pomáhat.
Nenechat tě padnout na dno.
A pak těm, co ubližují
před věrností přednost dát.
Vždyť jsi to už věděl dávno.
Sázím růže do popela,
jen ať si v něm vykvetou.
Když jim půda nestačila,
tohle je mou odvetou!
Na tvé zradě, milovaný,
těžko můžu něco změnit.
Nedal by sis šálek čaje?
In times of dark and despair,
In times of test and trouble,
I refuse to be in this bloody rubble.
I have much at stake,
that is up to take,
and slide in the Devil's wake.
For my friends sake,
I will fight on.
Because he is worthy of this par take,
above my grave, the bloody lake.
Heart of the Woman IIHeart of the Woman
What will glow like fire every night?
What will shine like the stars?
What will glimmer so brightly
That one will see it from afar?
What will have value more than precious stones,
More than silver and gold?
What has a price so dear when bought
But never should be sold?
Men, if you don't know, then ask your wives; if they don't know, then ask Puabi.
Hello, hello, helloHello, hello, hello.
Is that you behind the door?
I haven't known you round this way,
since many years before.
Hello, hello, hello.
I can hear you by the sink.
I'd offer you a cup of tea,
if you had lips to drink.
Hello, hello, hello.
I thought you might drop by.
You always loved these barn-storm nights,
when lightning cracks the sky.
Hello, again, hello.
In the draft I feel your touch.
It does me good to know you're near,
and hurts me just as much.
Hello, my dear, hello.
We shared such postcard bliss.
It cracked like lightning on that night.
A dark night just like this.
Hello, a soft hello.
A nothing sort of fight.
I dashed a plate against the wall.
You stormed into the night.
Hello, my love, hello.
I hoped that you'd come back.
By wind-blown door I kept my watch,
and felt my still heart crack.
Hello, a *long* hello.
The years have left their mark.
My hands are cold; my eyes grow weak.
I'm left here in the dark.
Sit down and say hello.
I'll go pour that cup of tea.
I haven't long to s
Mind in Madnesscan you see what coils inside?
behind these sleepless, weary eyes?
a chaos, i cannot abide
yet within my thoughts it lies.
A drum beat or a lambent cord
pulsing deep inside my skull
i pray my sense to be restored
yet the drum beats never dull
Swirling, like a vortex storm
ceasing not, its twisting ways
again i pray, for lucid form
and wait for brighter days
such a mind, in madness caught
beseeching, clarity to come
yet all my prayers i know are naught
this inner tumult leaves me numb
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.
EasterRemember what you love,
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More