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The Artist's PleaThe fingerprints of mankind among each hill
Does the artist's eyes with melancholy fill,
A meadow unseen, untouched by time
Lends the poor poet his timeless rhyme,
The song of a lark, the scent of a rose
Bears in its womb, the birth of sweet prose,
And though man will pillage and nature abuse
Where from will he find tomorrow's muse?
Sonnet XIIIMistress Fortune, thou art every man's queen,
Princes and paupers take thou for a bride
And upon thy smile mankind rests keen;
I pray to no God, yet bow 'neath thy pride.
Each reward of creation is thy gift;
Sweet fruits of laborious seeds unsowed,
And how fickle the man, who in thy rift
Laments lost harvests on fields unploughed.
Yet, thy nature reflects the untamed sky,
Sullen, silent, sunny; a fiend and friend,
And though weathered I, still this eye be dry,
On thou, my dearer tears, I shall not spend.
Miss Fortune! Fair Fortune! A fare thee well!
All thy winds of chance shall not toll my bell.
By the StrandI still breathe your name by the wavering shore
And cast away to the sail winds a song
And close my eyes and evermore belong
To the unfed brine and its yearning roar.
The distant lamps polish the incensed green,
A flock of fallen stars upon the bay
Alights a dream of a submerged day
And strokes in feud a mind's browbeaten scene.
And standing by the strand I pace and skew
In hope a rising crest will fell or hide
Your voice; yet each raw spate, each rippling tide
Borrows to bestow an echo of you.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sonnet XXIWho can bemoan these barren, bitter days
When he who loved once spoke and heard her vows
Which were but words upon which passion preys
Until the breast from a dream does arouse.
And tacit, tamed truth sends forth honest odds,
Still he uncovers that twinge trickle spring,
Still she does worship her twice fallen Gods
To find tonic herbs in winged Cupid's sting.
How trite, how vain my liege it is to keep
High pearls of eyes bereft the sheen of cheer
In dungeons deep, or thorny towers steep
On lambent clouds that rove the drifting sphere?
For rue remembers joys, charms, bonds of air
And forgets years of mirth once lay elsewhere.
Sonnet XXIINight and day I have yearned for day and night;
Now two apostles greet my early eye,
Awakens dawn with charms of evening's sprite
And eve will dawn with dawn's serrated spy;
The wily weed will ornament the leaf,
The prideful leaf will grace each petal bare
And though a jennelise plays envy's thief,
A weed devised measure for beauty's share.
Where dwells a prize in priceless thoughts and mull?
What joys allow repose once left behind?
Is that gray partridge spiritless and dull
Flat meat before it meets the meaty mind?
All happiness of man can only sway
In tides of tomorrow and yesterday.
When I talk, you don’t listen.
You’re just waiting for your turn to speak.
You view every conversation as a competition.
All I can see is the unstoppable movement of your cheeks.
The flow of communication is always re directed back to you.
Almost as if everyone must hear what you have to say.
I’m not denying that half of what you say could actually be true.
But how can so much happen to a person in just one mere day.
What makes it worse is that your stories get recycled and repeated.
I zone in and out of your speeches and know exactly what happens next.
My place in the conversation is to respond and nod when needed.
If you can’t tell me in person, you incessantly try to call me or even text.
I can feel my tolerance and patience gradually wearing thin.
I am not even sure how much longer I can hold it in.
I want to tell you the truth but I don’t know how to phrase it.
Because I know once it is delivered, it is impossible to erase it.
So I have
Half a Dozen RosesHalf a dozen roses
sitting in a vase
every time I see them
i see your smiling face
Half a dozen roses
white and silky smooth
a very treasured gift
from a very treasured you
Half a dozen roses
never gonna fade
I may keep them forever
until the end of days
Half a dozen roses
may not mean a lot
but they are simply priceless
the most important thing I've got
Half a dozen roses
sitting in my room
the only thing I could want more
is absolutely wonderful you
S.O.S.Sometimes I feel heavy
No, I could never float with all this pressure
Sometimes my shoulders ache
from trying to keep my head above
the constant swell of waves
Sometimes I grit my teeth
when I feel myself careening toward that edge I didn't see
Sometimes I look into that dark hole
and wonder what it would be like-
to let myself sink down deep
and not even try to swim.
Is it dark and quiet,
like a peacefull, dreamless sleep?
But I don’t dwell on that,
because how would I carry you out-
if you needed me to?
How could I embrace such darkness,
and ignore our beautiful Lilli lighthouse?
Sometimes I have to remind myself
that it's okay to drift
close to shore,
that it's okay to dip my toes into the midnight waves
because her light will always guide me home.
Sometimes…I think that maybe I am adrift too…
My arms so tired from the swim,
feeling helpless and lost in the fog,
needing your voice to guide me
and your hands to help me up.
a misty autumn evening,
cold whirls of grey
rimmed with orange, sunswept embers.
A shivering, phantom breath
against a candle's flickering wick
that refuses to snuff.
the murky fog
of her seering passion
by the icy deluge of her disconnect,
that aura of frost
on the jutting berg of her hip,
from her warm, red lips
like a mint upon my tongue.
The steering wheel
turns me onto unfamiliar roads,
rides the yellow lines
as they rise,
directionless beneath her star
that always shifts
and cannot be tracked;
illusive as a rainbow,
yet more beautiful than all colors.
because sleep is the only place
to promise the impossible
love of her heart,
simultaneously intangibly attainable
as her touch,
as her embrace,
as summer sunlight
against a yellow, winter moon
all warm in origin,
all frozen in conclusion.
Forsaken IsolationYour deadly disturbing diversions
With that baneful besting gaze
I am alone on this beautiful beach
There is none but a ravished raven
Oh this fowl is nothing but a feral
The ground ruptures with a heart-filled laugh
Fires burn, trees die, the world is set afire
Soon the fires die and there is but one tree 'live
Sitting there, all alone
God's jealousyFly with me, my angel,
and lend me your wings.
Make God blind
with your shiny feathers
and close my mouth
with a burning kiss.
CraveCrust of things hanging around
Raunchy smells fill the acrid air
And theres this thing thats hard to define
Verily I feel a hunger building and it is hard to resist
Easily I subsume to this primal desire and let it consume me
flightless words and paper heartsearly mornings drizzled with requiems
for the dreams I didn't have
leave me hollow,
all at once.
the hollow resides in my bones -
I nestle my head in ungracious knees
loose gripped arms around me.
but heat never finds me,
never graces my
weak spine with a kiss
and I ache.
my head is full of weightless
as words mull and lose their meaning.
and I write.
and I write.
but, flightless words look ugly
when they crash into my paper
after spilling from
and weighted eyes strain to see
attempting to lure words with
strings that dangle fish hooks
down the back of my throat.
my voice is scarred, my eyes are tired,
and I wonder what they whisper
when they catch you in their stare.
because my brain is keeping secrets from me -
I can't remember the dreams
that bruise my womb
and punch out my paper heart.
but when nightmares aren't separated
from dreams in your vocabulary,
maybe you deserve a mind
and a he
Evil place.The tears stream down your face
There is no comfort in this place
Screams are filling both your ears
This place brings life to your fears
Abandon all hope ye who enter
This place is evil to its center
It seems familiar to you now
Almost like a broken vow
Blood is leaking from the walls
Up the corridors and down its halls
The blood turns black before your eyes
In this place there are no skies
Only walls now turning black
From the words you can't take back
This place was once filled with love
Now its evil to hell you'd shove
It's moving like a beating heart
One that's tearing itself apart
"You see all this inside my eyes?"
"I hear it in your lonely cries."
"Then why'd you leave me all alone?"
"I have my place and my own throne."
Walking away from me again
I let this beast out that lay within
"Then let my heart burn hell
Not quite an angel but one that fell."
Hear the beast that's born anew
With love and life I am through
A monster is born from hate so pure
Hide yourself there is no cure.
The Passion FruitTease the heart in little doses,
A dash of red, not all the roses,
Fan the flame that's frail and dying,
Cull the bird that's fit and flying,
Win the sight of every pleasure,
Yet forfeit the sunken treasure,
Pull one step short of simple ration,
Hoard the enshrined conversation,
Speak in words that betray ire,
Prepare the untimely pyre,
Call out the rites in gleeful voices,
Portray a faux lack of choices,
Then leap before the burning fervor,
Await the sorrowful preserver,
Raise the stakes to hold your bearing,
Stretch the tender till it's tearing,
What is broken, makes one stronger,
What doesn't end is meant for longer,
What is pined for is not what is
And longed for neither hers nor his,
A dearth, a lack, a want we savour
And THAT lends the passion fruit its flavour.
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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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