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Literature Text
Headlong into war. Thrust at the dead men standing across the wall.
Melted down like bullets, they steady themselves. We steady ourselves.
An explosion of great Anarchy. A burning saint’s scream.
A collision of fools, a glorious bloodshed.
Shod in whimpered pleas,
And a smirk at my brother’s dead god.
Melted down like bullets, they steady themselves. We steady ourselves.
An explosion of great Anarchy. A burning saint’s scream.
A collision of fools, a glorious bloodshed.
Shod in whimpered pleas,
And a smirk at my brother’s dead god.
Literature
i could be nothing
some days you look at me as if i am
worth remembering,
glances studying my face like a road map.
but mostly, i find your eyes stuck in the static
of the pavement, or lost
in the clouds
gathering before lightning.
and we never promise anything, just share the air like strangers
when we don't know what to say.
(it always ends with a silence more desolate
than broken trust.)
you said this is the calm before the storm
but what if
it never slows down
enough for me to notice
that there are days when we can exist
without doubting every second. you have a tendency to whisper
too quietly, leaving room for me to imagi
Literature
i only asked for the end of the world
"i found shadows in the sun again,"
i looked at her
with a gleam of sarcasm in my eyes,
as she looked down with wind in her hair.
the night looked lovely on her.
the purple of post-nebula progression
it made her eyes look electric blue
though they were a soft green.
"i said, i found shadows on the sun again."
she'd never look up unless
she couldn't breathe and needed
to pull a sigh out of her butterfly winged lungs.
and that bothered me;
- she'd refuse to breathe
only because the air seemed
un-enough.
she'd give up so easily sometimes.
i run out of pretty things to say
Literature
Lean Over The Rail
A wood and steel bench on a pier
where the tourists have no reason
to go (that makes it home, that
makes it mine). It is chained to
the boards with seafoam rust
as if someone expects it to collapse
in the wind-
or to somehow preserve
all those pale carved hearts.
Like the one on the underside
of its leg, kept out of
sight (someone bent over
for this, someone wanted
this secret and forever).
(A tattoo, kept
from the family).
I can't read it anymore,
I can only touch it with
the top of my hand
and wonder if the ocean I'm
watching extends past
my eyes.
Suggested Collections
Might be writing more soon.
© 2013 - 2024 dy-ad
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