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Hurricane WeatherFingernail picking at the closet mine Til' it hits the backroom's filthy swine And finds those old racks filled with leather; It leaves a trail that stinks to high And sticks the throat like hurricane weather—Hurricane Weather
In that sleepy, sweetly sticky land of language crimes Where half-filled glasses bide their time Imprisoned speech dragged to nooses, With words no one uses And the fools that bruise it can't blanket abuses with rhyme.
by ~BethlehemLights
Upon WakingI am dreadfully aware of how long I've been asleep. The back-and-forth motion of this joyride Has jarred my subconscious; And though my pupils remain dilated,Upon Waking
so that all is light and all at once,
I am desperately aware of how awake I've yet to be.
by ~BethlehemLights
SwallowmarksThere was no difficulty in gauging your trails: I stared onto your peak like all Olympus; knew the pitfalls that would snag my heels, the way my chest would beg for mercy. Soaked your chill as I played the markhor, grappling the distance between us withSwallowmarks
footsteps slow
and wrists acquiver, cold for lack of handhold.
I saw the way before me clear like a red sea of frost and stone; I unclench my chattering teeth, rub some splint of warmth back to my bones, shake the frostbite, ripping off like petrified bark coming undone.
I find it telling
by ~BethlehemLights
Psalms EulogizedOckham never fashioned a razor that was a guillotine for gods and faeries: little hopes kept the arrow blunt— and the blades well-greased for a final cut. Such hopes might have once saved us from our apathy such delusions might have saved us from inadequacy; but as far as filthy winds go,Psalms Eulogized
you were a breath of fresh air.
Now it is clear: reason alone
cannot dispel the single-celled labyrinths and the combined weight of a moral nothingness— the holy ghost unsettles my nights like tree branches creeping over windows, like closet monsters stealing acr
by ~BethlehemLights
Random Favourites
twilightshe lays in waiting the twilight in her hair a symphony of starlight above her land as barren and coldtwilight
as stone below her raven hair wrapped about
her, a shroud to hide her shame a mist arises from the shadows a chill to steal the life from flesh she welcomes it with
open arms tears streaming down her angel face made innocent again
with a child-like hope of dreams to come true it creeps toward her slowly enveloping her in its agonizing peace; her sweet head droops like
a lily in the winter and her forg
by ~christania7
The Weight of the SunI think I always knew how my lungsThe Weight of the Sun
gave way under the weight of the sun--- and how the dreams I kept under my skin escaped through my goosebumps
I couldn't raise my neck from its grassy landing,
I couldn't even inhale the musty noonday air: not as long as it reminded me of cloudless skies and weeping willows, shedding tears so sparingly
...my muscles were too soothed by cross-breezes to bear the flights of sparrows and blue jays: and my outstretched wingspan, earthbound could no more grasp talons than the ends of my hair
And as I lay there, I wonder
by ~Tantsui
O, For A Muse Of FireShe liked to watch him play the violin. She wasn't sure why - but she could not truthfully imagine anything more pleasurable than crouching down near to where he stood in all his rag-festooned glory, the ground at his feet littered with old newspaper and discarded plastic cups - and just listening , her bright eyes fixed on the long, crooked nose bent toward his instrument and the lengthy shadow he cast, set to trembling by the flickering light of passing subway cars.O, For A Muse Of Fire
It gave her a curious sense of ownership, and of pride, to know that she alone, out of all the people who had ever heard this music, understood the melodies that th
by ~AngelicAzriel
One-Winged PulseYou were whisked down from the treetops by summer winds, down from your heavenly cloud with yesterday's fallen leaves, formed from a wish of a one-winged wren (All my letters sealed in balsa-wood bottles-- love letters on panda paper.)One-Winged Pulse
How you trip as you walk- you could be mistaken for a maiko in beachside flops, the canopy your kimono with a toucan-feathered fan.
I counted leaves as they turned into stars flapping uselessly to reach you as you curled around the crescent moon, cocooning yourself in one twelfth of the light you deserved. If my back had been
by ~Aki-Aka
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- Current Residence: Florida, United States
- Interests: linguistics, conworlding & conlanging, poetry
- Tools of the Trade: pencil & pen, paper, keyboard
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We (the over 70 members, seniors, and deviantArt staff) will be following your artistic career for one year, as well as supporting you by featuring your work in our journals. I will also be personally featuring your deviations in my own journal. The most current feature is this journal: [link]
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