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If one can unravel these delirious ramblings,
Illuminate the riddle,
Unearth the mystery of old—
These images, these trapped spirits of fleshless eternity
That linger just behind the eyes,
Just past bloodstained words,
A stumbling step into a half-forgotten dream:

Of fire and ash-choked wind,
Of tears falling into a blackened pool,
Of crystals that capture the eyes with stolen light.
The song that was carried on the wind.
The eternity-endless-black depths of a raven's eye
As it looked upon the broken angel in the snow.
Flight and fury and prismatic dance.
Dauntless time, empty time. Meaningless time.
Whispers in the night, caresses of dreams alive, living, dreaming.

Do you know? Do you understand?
Has the song awakened once more,
Within shells battered and barren,
Ceaselessly stumbling,
But housing That which Came Before,
And That which is Yet to Be?

What is the Tide bringing?
Why does the path seem so dark?
Destiny is Choice
Honesty with Fortitude,
With Heart,
With purity of soul,

Does Love weave this song?
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This is fairly recent, but it seemed fitting.

When one moves solitary through the world, echoes of the past can coil around one's being and whisper of oddities and losses and missed opportunities, of the crumbled ruins of beauty and life. Desolation can seem to fill your vision, and you can begin to feel as though you are the last, fading snatches of a dream, insubstantial, at the edge of oblivion. But if you move through these echoes and ghosts, these tears and wishes and longings, if you breathe them and let them pass through you, if you still your mind and truly listen-- in the silence and emptiness there is a song, a symphony. Its strains seem quiet, yet it surrounds us; we are immersed in it, floating in it, dancing in its waves. It is the stuff of dreams, of births and of lives and of childhoods spent racing through crumbling neighborhood streets overhung by the shadows of willow trees. It sings of beloved pets with warm brown eyes and lolling tongues, and sister-friends who with musical laughter weave tales of magic and wonder, and brothers who gaze through veils of time and space, touching this world briefly in greeting through the shell of a broken body before setting off for worlds unknown inhabiting an uninhibited mind. It sings of the snow-draped wood and crystalline waterfalls and those eyes of greybluegreen, dark hair tangled in an unruly mane. It sings of the child yet to be born, of the mother and the father that will love it and teach it and show it the miracle that is the world. It sings of hushed fits of giggling issuing from the mouths of children who are supposed to be sleeping, but who instead lurk around the shadows of a darkened house as they pretend to be adventurers seeking buried treasure. It sings of picking tiny strawberries from a backyard garden and wrinkling a tiny nose at their tartness. It sings of friends floating in frigid water at one in the morning with the spray of a nearby waterfall tickling faces soon numb with cold, as far above, stars streak across the black sky by the hundreds. Time melts away within the strains of this song; all simply is. To touch the song is to touch everything that is.


When the two souls came together, they spun and spun and spun, light seeping into light, colors melding and blending in greens and blues, violet and white and rose, golden like the sun and silver like moonlight. The colors were music and the music was color. Galaxies and stars, eons and worlds and centuries, suns and moons and planet-rings and nebulae and millenia, seasons and years and cycles passed and swept beyond their united vision like a living organism. Together and one, they spiraled into infinity.
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Hello, lovely friends list, exceptionally stellar and beatific lovers of the arts! How are you all today? Well, I hope. My silence is broken this morning... er, well (looks at clock) afternoon. Time has a way of slipping past me unnoticed.

I have a story-in-progress I'd like to share with you all this morning. Honestly, I'd only started it because it was a relentless itch in my brain that wouldn't leave me alone; a constant, incessant prod that created brilliant image-explosions behind the eyes, puzzle pieces slowly culminating to a whole. It is a work-in-progress. Hence, it is very rough and unpolished. I have no idea where it's taking me. But I hope it will be wonderful.

Tentatively titled:


Eyes of an ancient one gazed from the cherub face of a child. Hair that perhaps beneath the layer of grime was the color of sun-bleached straw hung in limp strands, concealing smudged cheeks. She stood before me in the alleyway, incongruous, as if dressing a part, playing a character, far from home. I had been walking home from work, my bag slung over my shoulder, cell phone close and knife in pocket (because one never knew who would be waiting in the shadows around here). )
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More older writing

Spread your wings, crackling with life, billowing in their own wind. Remember them, remember the starlight and the ocean's beckoning song. You are more than your hands and feet, more than the limits of culture and dogma and materialism and time and decay, these illusions, these wisps of nothing that have become everything. You are of the stars. You are of the earth. You are the wind, the ocean, the whispering trees and the black velvet of the night sky, the cleansing silver cascade of moonlight. You are the trembling bones of the earth, the shifting and folding and twisting subterranean dance, veiled in ancient dust and ancient tales, memory reviving. Touch the universe, and remember who you are.
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I thought for my "revisited writing" post today, I'd share a short story. :) It's still quite rough, as I've never really gone back and edited, but I hope you all enjoy all the same!

Of all the nights for this to happen… The gods must hate me. No, don't preach, don't sympathize, don't colloquialize. Their displeasure with me is quite acute. )
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There was once a land bordered by a deep and ancient forest, which was bordered by mountains so tall and treacherous, and so full of stories of terror and doom that none dared cross them, even though there had long been fables and whispers of a paradise beyond them.

Read more... )

A poem

Feb. 19th, 2009 02:34 pm
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Flaming petals rise as I
Kneel in blackened earth
Scraping, scratching
Scorched earth burning grieving fingers
Searching for cloven heart
Half a heart
Smoke rises
Incense of death
Sacrifice of rebirth
Golden bloom meets red
Sleep, dream, awake...
Still with cloven heart
Far I wander, far I search
Memory is as drifting incense
Light of day should not blind so!
A formless voice beckons
As ghostly bindings tighten
With beauty agonized enraptured
I grasp at smoke
Breathe of curling incense
Dream of whispering breezes that tickle my lips
And echo of the cloven heart
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I woke up gently, the soft light of early morning dancing across the surface of my eyelids. The memory of last night seeped into my bones, and my stomach gave a little flutter as I turned my head to look beside me, though past experience told me what I would find. He always meticulously made up his side of the bed before he left, pillows plumped under the flowered bedspread which was folded back with its cotton sheet to accommodate my own slight form. He left no trace, ever. I had stopped questioning it long ago.

Read more... )


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November 2012

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