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Yellow MaskBroken in the vents of ageless phosphour,
cast adrift with the gold of ages; always.
There it lies, and there it remains,
And there it has always been,
This horrid yellow mask.
This horrible pallid monstrosity!
It calls to me, you see. Day and Night.
A vibrant horn erupts from the sea,
and sounds to call me away forever,
to the murky depths of the Aegean.
And if I walk to it, to see the source,
the sound stops, as if to mock me.
But the crabs and the cockles,
and the cowries in the sands,
they are the worst of actors.
This silence, save for the piping,
of the wind, and of the gulls,
cannot make me forget the blasphemy
that was the sounding horn.
Sounding in notes unheard before,
and unimaginably awful.
And that yellow mask,
broken in the vents of ageless phosphour,
and cast adrift with the gold of ages;
Barrelstow and DalstonFriday Morning. It was the month called May, and I'd never enjoyed the Sun as much as I did then, sitting on my veranda. My sister had just been born; Silvia, in all her glory. She's since grown, but I can remember how she looked that day as if nothing had changed. Mother was shivering, I remember. I was only eight at the time, but I was aware, and I asked her if she was alright. She said she had had the same shivering after I was born, and that, then, it had gone away after a week or two, and it would probably do the same this time. I smiled. A bee flew by me and attached itself to a coneflower maybe six feet away. I watched it take up the pollen and fly away again, newly burdened. Mother called to me to tell me I'd be late if I didn't get going.
I grabbed my book, pencil, and coat and started walking. I lived about three miles from the Schultz-Herod Memorial School in Dalston. It was named for two war heroes, they told us. Peter Schultz was th
The Cotton Tree I do not expect you to believe me— I can scarcely condone even myself believing; but if this is untruth, it stems from my own ignorance; for I believe it wholly. And how should I not? I shall explain my account of the story as I remember it—
This day we had been sent to buy bread from a baker who makes his home in a nearby town; we had made short work of the trip and had, at length, decided it far more interesting to stray from the familiar path on the walk home. On a length of trail where we would normally take the left of the fork, we instead took the right, and so became separate from any previous knowledge of the area that we may have had; and, realizing that we had no reason to stay on a trail that meant so little to us, we quickly walked an hundred meters perpendicular to the trail, and began to navigate by intuition through the noon-time forest.
After an hour, which would normall
The Modern PrometheusTo my frozen jaw, his hands reached,
they molded from clay that which has killed me,
But it is too cold for blood to run,
and for what purpose would it?
And to what end, and by what means?
For that which he does not mold
cannot take form-
He is the creator,
and his hands the carpenter's compass.
And as I lie before him now,
like a stone sculpture from the Tripoli of old,
I cannot help but elate in the life he has given,
he and his mistress whom we call the mind.
For had he not come to me this day,
(or I, come to him)
Then I shan't have discovered
this so fleeting thing called life-
in any form, save for that shaded box
in which one sits before creation.
WinterHer heart spills the freshest of evening blood,
warming her hands in the winter air-
but her finger-nails have long fallen to the cold.
Her limbs have grown pallor-
She now blends with the snow-
save for the red upon her hands,
staining the landscape with a pinprick of the deepest ruby.
And a swan swooped down anon, as if to mourn
for the death of such a beautiful thing-
and it leaned to her cheek, and so showed its respect,
and left- being sure to leave enough time for the crows,
for they do so love to watch the other spirits arrive.
OceanaThe captain threw his haughty voice through the night sky,
as the crow's nest began to topple down,
and a cry was heard from the ocean-
a sudden, explosive cry- as from a child in despair.
The cry grew louder- more devilish.
It became something entirely new-
something of a shriek- a cacodaemonic shroud of sound.
It coated the air, and every surface there-in,
it burst the ears of sailors and cooks,
and left them stunned to drown
as the ships planks gave way
to that horrid sound.
And as the hull found it proper,
it collapsed upon the crew
who had forgotten their loves,
their lives, and their mothers-
and a crack was heard
by the ocean-
such a fair maiden, she is.
And as the last cry was wont to fade,
her hand shot up
to grasp it by its heart
and pull it back
to it's salt-kept grave
just naughts below the captain's feet.
A Sudden War"I'm…Afraid."
Drops hit her head.
Lightning crashed as beckoned wails from wounded dogs.
Her face grew paler than it had in years,
since her last fit-
and she yelled to the sky
as freezing drops blanketed her nightgown,
yelling in their own right,
to show her that
she is once, and for all,
In Praise of MorningWith the rise of the golden sun,
the leaves come to life.
They shimmer and billow in the breeze,
and make the sounds which only insects hear.
The birds shake the dew from their wings;
And the Rabbit, in his pomposity, just sits,
taking in the Morning.
O requiem! the Night has gone;
"And it may never return," said the Rabbit.
But the trees did not wish this.
Nor did the birds, who find refreshing
the morning dew, and sunless rest.
But the Rabbit insisted:
"I have never seen the sun so bright,
and it is clear it shall never dim again!"
The birds prayed for Night once more,
to their nameless Gods, with faces bizarre.
And the Leaves and trees called to the Sun
himself, to let the Night Return.
But the Sun answers not.
Nor do the Bird-Gods with Armoured wings
and satin coats upon their backs.
"How is it," twitched the Rabbit,
"that you all so wish for the cold Night?
What has the night done but made you lonely?
Made you cold and scared?
And stolen away your closest company
until the Morning
The Lover's Feud with TuesdayBut with Friday,
in all of its precipitous glory,
so far away-
and without feelings;
how can one find it amorous?
How can one,
who is so much a cynic,
consider it anything
but the cruelest of all,
leaving you with but a taste
of this week's end,
with which so much joy is placed?
-But the lovers claim it theirs,
and so look forward
to its endless day,
and endless night,
that even the most neutral of days,
seem as a sadist to their love.
LoneWhen hearts are breaking,
And all bonds shaking,
And true love just feels so fake,
Being lonely is now my pride,
Because there is so much at stake,
I am kept from this pain for my own sake.
I concealed my feelings for too long,
Now I see it all pays off,
Thoughts kill even the strongest minds,
But my strength was just enough,
To overcome you without further pain,
Though there was no slightest gain,
I am happy that I am alone,
Because you’d leave me,
You’d be gone.
But, do not worry, fate will smile,
To find the truth takes a while,
Forget reasons that forged your sadness,
Because without a singledrop of badness
You do exist in our bright world.
Do not rush, just wait, dear girl.
Because this is the Midwest,
And here you only find the best.
Mistica EscarlateMas por amor
Schopenhauer seria feliz;
Locke seria anarquista;
Marx abandonaria a revolução;
Luther King sessaria seu discurso;
Dalai Lama mataria;
Darwin seria cristão;
St. Agostinho, anti-teísta;
Mas Platão, somente Platão,
que sacrifica a própria realidade em vista da perfeição,
ele sim compreenderia...
Que amor é mística, é metafísica.
Que amor nos dilata, nos sublima;
Que amar não é matéria, é magia.
Eternal Peace (first sonnet). If I cannot eternal peace achieve,
Then let my conscience burn me.
For what is to take, if you don't give?
All I do crumbles in my hands, a living myth,
Which I myself created.
I play it through in my mind, but life just
Ends with one picture- Death.
A breath I draw, a sigh, at this melancholy
I expose. And there is nothing to do, but die,
And to you I give, my last white rose.
If I cannot eternal peace achieve, then
Allow me to exit this place.
If I cannot eternal love achieve, then allow
Me to finish my days.
Beautiful NightmareBeautiful Nightmare
Hair of raven black and eyes of ocean blue;
she’s the only one who’s heart is true.
Day in and day out she loves and so
my love for her will surely grow.
By my side is she each and every day,
and when the night hits she runs away
to meet me in my dreams.
She’s watching over me, so it seems.
I never want her to flee
because without her, sanity I cannot see.
When she is by my side
I feel like I never need to hide.
She makes me feel emotions
that I never knew and they roar like the oceans.
I feel a longing I cannot name
and a lust I cannot tame.
There is sorrow that fills me up to the brim
and every now and then I feel grim.
Whenever I sleep I’m surrounded by fears
that run down my face as tears
until she comes to me in my sleep.
My heart she will keep.
Life no longer seems fair
because she is my beautiful nightmare.
WanderingIt’s been so hard
to let you go
because I’m someone
who always wanders
away from others
but when I was
I did not want
we’re far apart
the distance has not
been able to still
this beating ache
inside my heart.
To a DreamOh, love of mine, what brilliant seed hast thou planted?
That, in your place, such brilliant flowers have been wont to grow.
And vines of brightest green, that make grass seem cant, hid
your livid heart, and it's accompanied breast, so the world shall never know
of its honest beauty, and vital voice amid
this summer full of trivial things, that, in view, you'd always seem aglow.
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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