DinnerPhilosopy ate fairytales; then puked mythology.
War StrategyHanged tears up, wore smiles on.
DissociationThe mirror showed her a stranger.
Afterlife-- You were dead!-- Wrong. You are.
But Leave Echoes BehindDream in color, live in grey.
ShatteredHe lit the cigarette hanging from his mouth cupping his other hand around it to make sure the flame didn't flicker out. When the nicotine began to work, he released the smoke invading his mouth; it had been a busy week. A week that was absolute hell. The man stepped on the cigarette butts, from other visitors, as he made his way though the decrepit building. Moonlight shown through the broken windows as to light his way. Not that he needed to see in the dark; he could see quite easily in the dark. Stained glass sparkled when the light hit the glass in a particular spot. He stopped to look at it. The stained glass window represented him perfectly. It was broken in the center. It was broken where the heart should have been in the picture created by the stained glass. Glass crunched underneath him as he stopped to stare at it. Did this really give him meaning? Did he feel anything about it? He took another breath of his cigarette. It wasn't doing much for him; the nicot
The case of the frustrated writerMurdered writers' block by stabbing keys.
Good MourningTombstone read: "I don't hurt anymore."
ChangingMy thoughts were not mine anymore.
The Last QuestionLooking back, did you enjoy life?
Shackles Falling (008)When the dandelions spread--a yellow diseaseacross the brown lawn--and thick ivy arms creptdown halls layered with dust,we knew it was time to go.We watched,a pair of memoriesfate wanted lost--the echoes of ghostslong departed--as the city cheeredthe building to brick dustand empty foundations.The start of a new month,the shackles of your eyeswere open--portals to a future without fur.As the sun danced acrobaticsacross the backs of our fading hands,you--a grin free of fangs,a boy once again--plucked me one more weedto wear in the clean braidof my hairas we skipped out on the moon.
Faery CirclesI watch the modern world pass me by, stretching bark-hardened arms--broken at the elbows, ligaments torn, fingers splayed in all directions--in a balmy breeze. Centuries ago, I stumbled into a faery circle; I wonder how many lost souls, like me, are still screaming.
2 Years"Here. She's smiling in this one."
mortem auctorisclick.internet killed the poet star.
WhiteShe sat at her marble desk with her sharp elbows forming another series of angles within the clean outline of the room. Her dark hair was a shock against the cynically white walls, painted so precisely to imitate a lack of colour, the room was markedly White. Except for the strikes of chrome down the walls that constituted pipeworks all was white except her. She stood out, but with such intent that all who visited this office knew to feel uncomfortable at once.
Steampunk DragonfliesYou'll find my family flying,the sun mosaic-ing off stained-glass wingsand burnished copper,deep in the forest where mushroom cities sprawland skittish deer wait out the changing seasons.The ancient aunts groom my Unca Bob's antennaeas they talk stories of our legacy."We was made inna cottageat the far tips of the highest mountainto a woodsman's calloused hands,"they always beginand the tight curly-cue of my wingssettle into silence."Him was a giantin the middle of cold metal sidewalksand strange flickering daylight;tha on'y man left and born with a secret to share."It's always around nowAunt Abner lets out a choked snoreand the other two forget that we're listening, quiet.The woodsman was a healer-type, they used to tell it,though they've never agreedif he was always fixing those too lost to find themselvesor finding himself too lost to fix.The silence never lasts long;the forest will shrug a tree into falling,a swallow will swoop in and bre
Delivery RoomGynecologist pulled. Death pushed. Nothing cried.