|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Exilethe old man lies still on a bed made of thistles
he cannot dream, for his exile carries no pardon
he has been provided a place of penance
a place where dragons flew, once
but have long since been stripped of their magic
and yet, what he sees in his sleep is not the gallant youth
nor the passion or the creation that he once sought and reveled in
instead, he smiles inward and reminisces the betrayal and the silken blade:
how it cut through the silver wire and separated the flesh from the skin
the truth from the lovers and the love from the lies
and how he held her head under water until she did not move
but instead joined him in a precession around the sun that was already going out
the winter will sweep the valley clean of dust and old pollen
the faraway heaths shall glimmer white in all their purity
but when the polar night obscures the deeper places
he will lie there, still
and listen to his time
slowly dripping away
MilkThe caretakers had left the lights on so I wandered in
stepped inside the great hall on the upper floor
filled with soft seats and hanging glass
softly colored wonders from ages past
built with the precision of the age of steam
The elevators, lined with pearls and gold
took me down to the marbled rooms
I followed the matron to the kitchen where I saw the ragged girl
sitting at the table, drinking milk from a chiseled cup
surrounded by maids and sewn animals
She looked at me with the her hazy golden eyes,
then started to recite the poetry that had brought her here
and when the milk took effect, one of the maids gently picked her up
and sang quietly in her ear as she carried her away
"Her poetry will again be a triumph", said the matron,
"I remember it from when I was a child myself"
I could only smile and nod carefully;
I didn't remember my childhood
for the milk had made me forget
LoveWe have come to the edge of our story
enticed by the radiance of angels
and promises of polished stone
warm silence envelops me as I write these words
the delicate shimmering playfulness of the mind
and the music that carries the colors within
Love is but a human word
a label painted with ink, a conversation piece
but against the madness of these brimming tones
and this pensive longing that I feel
how could such mere words ever compare?
A Dawn of YouEver since the dawn of you
I have slowly woven diamonds and rubies
piercing green emeralds and a sapphire of a thousand faces
carefully and deliberately spun
to reflect and refract the flames within:
A rainbow of the entirety of existence yet pale against the sunrise that is you
A fleeting whisper against the melody played by the heavens
A dull attempt for words where none would ever suffice
what I have does not measure up
I only have the coarse voice with which to sing my poetry
old paper on which to paint with coal and rainwater
and the fierce intention behind my fingertips
and yet, for as long as I am permitted to stay here
I will sing in harmony with and to my rising sun
and paint all the twilights between the worlds
VolitionThe spring was not followed by summer
all true words were uttered out of sight
The flames danced but were not seen,
nor did they spread like the wildfire
in the prevailing wind
When I'm old and the words do not carry me any longer
will the spring and the fire still remember me?
BeautyI'd rather wear flowers in my hair,
forming a delicate chain
Than diamonds around my neck,
covering my tender blue veins
For with every precious petal
and every lucent leaf
I'm a living lesson
teaching beauty can not be bought
But rather it grows and flourishes
with every living thought
Expensive LiesI sit and stare at the toilet bowl.
A guy I know is bulimic.
When we compliment him
I see the twist of agony in his eyes
as his brain reprograms it
to sound like an expensive lie
that costs him another tear
in his tattered dignity.
Friends hurry to him,
to reassure him, to love him.
They tell him how beautiful he is.
We didn't know him before,
but he's definitely not fat now.
We whisper things in concern like;
body dysmorphic disorder.
'I know you'll never believe me
but you are so gorgeous -
not just on the inside.' Not just.
And they're right, I join in,
because they are right to say it
because it happens to be true -
he is stunning. Not just on the outside.
And we want him to see himself
the way we see him, beautiful.
And I join in because
I've felt that strangle of pain
in my stomach, bowels and belly,
when someone used to tell me lies.
So I know how he feels.
Only, he is beautiful on the outside
and I'm not.
He's not seeing reality in the mirror
and I am.
And people rush to correc
Fearing MeI'm not afraid to cry
and I do it
a lot more than you would guess.
It isn't always sadness,
I just feel like I need to,
feel everything so strongly
that it's the only way
to let go for a moment
because if I hold on for too long,
if my grip gets too tight
I'll break myself,
I will break you like glass
and we will both
I am a good guy
who hasn't yet found a way
to show it,
I am a good guy
who still identifies with the villains,
hides everything important
anything to throw you
off of my trail....
and I don't know why,
but I am trying.
Maybe I think
that if you could see me,
the real me,
you wouldn't want to look anymore,
want to be anywhere near me,
and the idea
that I can't add up
to be enough for you,
to be enough for me,
is so fucking heart breaking
I can hardly fathom it.
I can't say that it doesn't hurt
because it does,
it hurts a whole hell of a lot,
I've come to depend on pain,
to befriend misery
A Kiss not Forgotten (a special tribute)Like a frost spread across valleys silent and dreary,
ever my longing lost in shimmers of shadow & wind
And days bled into years, the seas became deserts
But thoughts of thee would not perish
Thru memories untamed I staggered far and long;
upon solemn nights lit by the torch of your soul
O’ how deep I miss your fragrant cheer ..
Of warm evenings shared across Lake’s reverie,
watching horizons journey into Autumn’s dream
— wherest our hearts once bloomed a fabled sky
Those passions shared will forsake me not
Lest the Moon would bestow solace upon my ache:
I will lay marooned, haunted by thy seraphic-figure,
Or the ever fleeting caress of your gaze ...
So my soul shall yield to this mythic abyss; –
as I peer from my carriage to Nirvana
And thou away, from my arms, the Sun weeps
Unto eternity—my dear beloved, we are entwined
Forever our footprints cast in golden firmament
A kiss not forgotten in a ballet of light softly falling
I now bear the want
you're just a question marki met you so long ago
but back then our bodies were made of metal
and nowadays they’re made of the blades of
grass and dirt settling
underneath my fingernails.
my fingers are having a hard time
reaching the keys and
my organs are shaking mostly because i haven’t
eaten in two days but also
because i’m worried about the things you're doing to yourself.
we didn’t meet very long ago at all but it feels like forever ago
and you say you don’t know me
that you don’t know anyone
but baby you're turning into a skeleton and i’m peeling back my skin
to try and reach my bones, just like you.
i hope you're happy,
i’m covering the hard wood floors now
the bits and pieces splattered.
they are calling it a suicide but i’m calling it
a way to see my brain and
just how dark it has become, and honestly
i don’t want you to try and see about your’s.
i’m mourning the loss of my heart and wish you weren’t either -
Black hole BulimicThe Composition:
I birth poems — not amaranths
in graveyards — not gardens.
sows seeds of doubt
into skeleton weeds.
A farmer plucks the bones
from Apollo's hyacinth; his
I binge on broken
cracked collectors of rocks,
of pebbles kidnapped
from barren beaches:
where crooked kings
buried in books whose
pages creak to crickets
in an abandoned abyss
of an attic—caskets on
an antiquated shelf. I
choke on the dust and
twitch in recoil.
The bickering sky
A cloud coughs—
The clock's scythe hand
swivels to the beckoning
twelve. Spastic ticking—
each bleak stroke
of a midnight heart.
The sundials do not work
now. The vampires know
I kill poems—
as love for summer fades.late morning-
there's the tease of
snow in the clouds,
in the air, and the trees
have finally lost their
the sunlight is damp.
alters the room
as it graces my skin,
and for once
i don't wake up right away.
instead i lay
between my memory bitten
sheets, and i think
about all the times he said
that he hated winter.
i don't remember
when i began to love it,
and i don't care.
nothing can shatter that.
obligation steam machineas always
grinding the cankerous
of your cognition
until the lack of compassion
leaves you unlubricated
seized frozen bound stuck
only then the machine of
your fears will burst to steam
squealing to suckle
at the genius of my
the unsung soiled hero
of middle-class ferocity
savior of the undeserving
winding slowly deftly dying
martyr to the self-justified cause
DomusThe first night here we slept together tight
burned our shadows on the empty walls for the first time
made love and built paths and rings out of candles
causeways that measure and define the movements in this new place
that reverberates with a prospect of paintings
anticipation on all its seven oblique sides
The warmth that we have radiates inwards, and from within
and to these projections we start to spin the new silken cloth
on which to write, and paint, and to compose the sonnets
draw a map of the conquests and alliances and exploration,
on which to scribe the equations that govern the motion
of the descending shadow on the opposite side of the courtyard
and in which to wrap and with which to cover
the wood and the white and the other songs
that have once been sung in our sacristy
We did not let the falling yellow outside fool or betray us
we knew that it dances to the notes that are sung with our voices
and written with our handwriting, consecrated by us
and after the yellow will c
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More