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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.
Querido amigoQuerido amigo
Amigo es alguien muy especial que cualquiera no merece ese nombre llevar,
Alguien singular que para ti siempre está, en las buenas y en las malas,
En las risas y en las lágrimas,
Cuando un abrazo o una palabras de aliento necesitamos,
O quizás un simple gesto, alegre y sincero
Para calmar nuestras almas y curar nuestros corazones,
Con momentos imborrables, con locuras que sonrisas nos sacan cuando la tristeza nos amarga,
Ese ser especial que en nuestro camino no pensábamos encontrar, quizás fue una casualidad,
O una inesperada sorpresa que hace de nuestras vidas más llevaderas,
Menos solitarias y amargas,
Y más felices y dulces…siempre con su grata compañía.
Querido amigo a ti estos simples versos te dedico,
A ti que decidiste arriesgarte con una niña extraña, una joven solitaria
A la que miles de sonrisas les has sacado y su vida has cambiado,
A ti que con palabras duras y sinceras mucho le has enseñado,
More Than JustMore than just a furtive glance,
More than just a 'holding hands,
More than just a final chance,
More than just uncharted lands,
More than just enough to live,
More than just raptful bliss,
More than just an eternal octave,
More than just a fateful kiss.
TNM El Ladron de mi Corazon...Alguna vez han pensado en encontrar tu príncipe azul que te rescate y te lleve a vivir es su palacio.... pues qué pensarían si les digo que yo no encontré a mi príncipe, si no que fue un ladrón el que hiso que mi vida cambiara, bueno antes de contarles mi historia déjenme presentarme Mi nombre es Marie Elizabeth Flynn García-Shapiro Les contare mi historia, que sin duda no se parece a otra, volvamos el tiempo atrás cuando todavía importaba la popularidad y lo genial que eras, existía varios grupos: los populares (al que yo pertenezco), los roqueros, los dramaturgos, los pacíficos, los amantes de la moda y demás, pero lo peor de todo eran “Los antisociales” las ovejas negras de la segundaria, los rechazados, sinceramente patético aun no puedo creer que algunos chicos prefieran estar solos, en vez de salir con sus amigos, al cine o al parque porque siempre prefieren estar solos... pero el peor de ese grupo
Cherry Girl in BloomDarling, wait for me.
For I am a flower in bloom–
Growing in the darkness
Are you blooming, too?
Our petals give the wind their wings
And the meadows can hear our roots
Howling at mother nature.
Love, tell me.
Will you let the river run through?
The pretty roses surround me,
But I only have eyes for you.
You're the only one in my heart.
The summer heat fought off its dormancy.
Yet the lord won't let us flourish as one,
So may I ask you to forget-me-not?
King and QueenI am but a fool,
Victim to my emotions.
Like the tide to the moon,
They cause my wicked motion.
Betraying myself, you think I would have control?
But only a moment’s rest, gives privy to my soul.
Like a viper without fangs, or angels without wings,
I fear I’ll be my death, a voice box which cannot sing.
My love for you,
It grows like a field.
Expanding past pastures
As if you were my shield.
The only hope I have, is to let you be my hope at all
I will suffocate my fears; we’ll tear down these walls,
The boy will be a man. The girl will be a queen.
We’ll rule our world together, at last I a king.
STARING AWAY FROM FARThe hollowness in my heart
Standing beside loneliness sucking the tar
Breaking each bone in their power
As I dry in the heat
Inside a shower
Stuck Like a bee
Inside a Honey Jar,
Looking At you twinkle
And becoming a star
When I Was On a run away
And so Far,
Those Humble Nights
When we Looked at the Mars
When you were On the hill
Showing the way
In my darkest hours
Staring away from the far,
Getting the to Will to fight
Bringing out The man
No Longer wrong
No longer right
Working out the words
Making his Mark
Be a pray for the king,
Or a Meal for a hungry shark
Walking till his last breath
Walking towards the anti ark
And He runs away
Staring away from the far,
Now I lay here waiting for my depart
Missing out your presence
That could bring Out that spark
And Give this life again
An Immaculate start,
Showing out the world
From a different Phase of part
Not Missing Out your beauty
Or God's magnificent art
Now I stand here
Staring away from the far.
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.
All Here For A ReasonI turned onto a shady, well-manicured driveway that, for all intents and purposes, looked harmless enough. Maple trees lined both sides of the street, and a parade of Canadian geese marched across the road to a wide duck pond with a flamboyant fountain. There were blooming crepe myrtles and rose-of-sharons, and as I grew closer to my destination, neatly trimmed gardens with neatly trimmed bushes.
I stopped to let the geese pass. They looked at me; one hissed. I honked my horn and moved around them.
At the end of the road sat a collection of grayish buildings and a number of signs directing me to the appropriate parking lot. "Welcome to Ten Creeks Hospital," said one of them. "Please enjoy your stay." I parked in the visitor's lot. Surely I wouldn't be staying.
I was shaking when I got out of my car. I had spent the morning getting high. One foot in front of the other, flip-flop noises, hot sidewalk. Mulberry and magnolia trees, freshly shaved grass. A bench and pan for smokers. A set o
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