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Only the Moon RemembersThe mists gleam with an iridescent blue.
But they pull away from me as I walk
along cobblestone paths, footsteps oppressed.
The forest takes on a spectral facade.
A sound from within the foliage,
interrupts my silent, cold amble.
But goes ignored, like the breath of a sleeper.
Resuming my stroll through the moonlit woods,
I find myself gazing up at the sky,
as I contemplate epochs long past.
Unheard, a call from the grave, echoes behind.
A grey cloaked figure, waiting in the haze,
with eyes of burning coal, that look through me.
Open to an age, submersed in forever night.
Face to the StormI'd have to look up to see the bottom.
How have I fallen so far, yet have so far to go?
This will end here, my heart holds no repent.
Ebony clouds on the horizon stare back at a sickly smile.
I am the wind that has no master.
Your violent lights shake the very air around me.
Lightning impacts the earth beneath my feet.
But still I stand, spear at hand.
God of the Tempest,
I will never fall to your gales and rain.
I will never be your slave.
You and I are One and the same,
a Positive and Negative charge on the same particle.
Even if you crush the world beneath your Kingdom,
You can never break my spirit,
and you can never take my soul.
Into the Storm, my sight remains.
It's just you and me.
Come what may.
The Spirit in the MistThe mists gleam with the ambient light of the moon and stars.
But they pull away from me as I walk down these cobblestone paths.
The surrounding forest takes on a spectral appearance in the haze.
A sound from within foliage interrupts my amble,
most likely a small rodent or cat.
Resuming my stroll through woods,
I find myself whistling to a tone by Iron Maiden.
Taking the time to reflect upon myself, as the sky draws my gaze.
A faint whisper escapes into the cool night air.
I turn around, but no one's there.
There's no such thing as ghosts.
Another whisper cuts through the air, sending chills down my spine.
I held my breath at what I saw when I turned around.
A silhouette, twisted and rippled by the fog, stood less than fifteen feet behind me.
The WifeA good wife would never provoke her Husband to jealousy.
A good wife would not take advantage of His love.
A good wife wouldn't take gifts from her Husband to parade it to attract other men.
A good wife wouldn't lie with strangers.
A good wife would be faithful.
A good wife would be thankful.
A good wife would be an honor to her Husband.
She wouldn't want to manipulate or hurt Him.
She would seek to build Him up.
To be there for Him, just as He is her.
She'd remain at His side and work with Him.
Seeking to please Him.
Not tear down the house He makes.
Not disgrace Him.
But love Him.
A good partner tries to understand His feelings, not shun them.
Conversations with a madmanAm I mad? I guess it's obvious.
For you just believed you spoke to a planet.
So I'd say your insane, if you don't mind.
Well a mind? I certainly don't.
When I left this house,
I had such a feeling, the need
To kill myself.
But now that I have returned,
From my conversation,
I wish nothing of it.
I need a reconnection,
I need a re-calibration,
With our earth, the deceased planet.
Many view madness as a bad thing,
Something, some state of mind, negative.
However only through madness,
Have I found true, genuine happiness.
For what am I,
But a verbose thought.
Wrapped up in skin and sanguine,
Comprised of fleeting moments,
Faux truths and a
Personal spiritual ideology.
My mind a realm of chaos, undivided.
Constantly warping, changing.
A moment of complete silence?
I could never recall.
Yes, a pit of disorganisation,
But yet of organised anarchy
That follows no fixed form,
No certain structure.
Much like this current piece
That I have entrusted to you,
To happen upon.
Do I retain the right
Towards The Beyond
Spirit breath condenses
in the deep chill of the void.
as these great ephemeral towers
drift, they reflect the cosmic glow.
They belong to unreality,
only in imagination can any of us
scale their heights.
The Dance.You and I dance as life and death,
unbroken and ever going,
circling and never ending.
As the music dies,
and the song stops,
where our dance is paused.
My sight goes gray,
the light in my eyes dims,
and I fall down forever back.
Your face is the last thing,
I saw and remembered so I take great comfort,
that you're forever there before me as I fall down.
So the music revives,
and the song restarts,
where our dance is unpaused.
The music is all around us and surround us,
like the lives we make and take,
and the dance is going faster to bring life and disaster.
The Memory of a Dead Man Walking
Suchlike the will of brimstone beasts,
Is the will of a dead man walking,
In each step is left the prints of carelessness.
Holding the half empty glass with a crack in the side,
stumbling around the dunes in the long wait to become
a savage before the credits roll.
A happy ending was for another tale for another man way
off back in the mirage of the desert that harbors those
dunes as he lies six feet under with a smile by rigor
mortis and a silent song in the beatless heart, there
beneath a tombstone that read,
here lies a memory.
Come Hell or high Heaven, the dead man walking
walks on without a goal or care for the world,
a bottle of dried up whiskey hanging loosely
in hand, gathering sand from the winds of that
coming storm. Illusive would have been his
laughter to sober eyes in that wasteland.
The Memory looks on as a shade beyond the grave,
staring straight at a man of woe, watching those
apathetic trails disappear. The glass fell into
the bosom of those lands beyond greener pastur
Serenaded are the vultures past the
silence of calm demeanor,
where only leaves fall in a quiet Autumn.
The gusts of haunted winds run through a
chilled air that even ghosts choose to
evade in the darkest hours.
No Sunlight had touched the soils below
in any matter of time,
though it had given first light to growth.
Though that canopy cannot keep away the
howls and screams of undead scavengers
which only muffled the sounds of better
birds who sang for the sun.
Third eyes were stitched shut and feet
were bound by illusive chains. How little
the closed treasure chest could ever hold,
where when opened it would have overflowed,
blotting out the haunted sounds and using
the limited light within darkness.
The vultures search only to find with eyeless
sockets, the lively canopy of those growing woods.
Time and all of space could never have grazed those
soils, however wet or dry. Whatever was let in was
by the canopy that guards and shelters.
There were paths in those woods, where many feet h
baby stepsit was probably
celsius met fahrenheit
in a sloppy french kiss on frozen ground.
after all the walking,
the skin of my hands started to crack and bleed;
silence, i decided,
was the solution and the cure. i dipped
my hands into its glowing broth:
warmth suffused my body struggling
to sit still.
on marched the sun,
Heart SongI am conscious of
Getting everything in my body going.
I can control everything in it as I need it
And perceive in it every single touch.
I love my heart as it is.
I am certain of loving it.
In my spiritual hand I take it gently
And I always pay attention to it.
It bounces and flutters in my hand,
Almost up to its edge.
My heart is beating incredibly wild
And I give it a calming picture.
With loving words I talk to it:
In a relaxed, peaceful tranquility may you serve my body.
I am full of gratitude in me,
All this love belongs to you.
You have always provided my body good
And I admire your everlasting courage.
In all fears, in all fright
You have been always awakened.
Through my body you pump the blood,
Even at very extreme anger.
All that always in love to me,
For this I thank thee.
I need all my life
Your everlasting song.
Until I have accomplished my work on Earth
And my soul will set out.
Please accompany me with all your strength,
Until the path is reached.
Till then, I will join
OuroborosThe Cycle begins at the rise of sun,
ending during the descent of the moon.
The dragon that consumes its barbed tail,
the sands of time, and wheel forever turning.
Unconscious is the flow, ascension.
Mindless is the resistance to the wheel.
But in vain, your useless endeavor ends.
It is the sand that slips through your fingers.
Nothing lies behind, but these pale memories.
What exactly is the meaning of this?
You have made life a thief and murderer.
You let the weak be denied and fall behind.
A Question buried in the cold sands
and a thousand Answers we left below.
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More