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Literature Text
Let danger call to me
from the dead of night.
I'll stand before your monster
and quench down your plight.
For just one more sip
of human's voice
I'll make the very mountains tip
just hark to me one final time.
It's not silence. It's a cage.
Even just a single chime
from a discord melody.
This punishment, too harsh
for a crime so common.
It may shut my ears to suffering
it's the same to all men.
Release me from your prison
and let me harken retribution
or I shan't learn my fellow's cries
to make from sail, good men risen.
from the dead of night.
I'll stand before your monster
and quench down your plight.
For just one more sip
of human's voice
I'll make the very mountains tip
just hark to me one final time.
It's not silence. It's a cage.
Even just a single chime
from a discord melody.
This punishment, too harsh
for a crime so common.
It may shut my ears to suffering
it's the same to all men.
Release me from your prison
and let me harken retribution
or I shan't learn my fellow's cries
to make from sail, good men risen.
Literature
The Meaning of Things Now
In the old town: Sneakers hang from traffic lights as if to say they would have run if they could. If they weren't tethered to this place, and so paired their steps with the sound of airhorns. The sound of trains is the voice of sepia now -- the dark throat of a city as it is in memory lagging behind with time. At least a handful I know claim it as their birthright - played chicken along the tracks. You can see the last peak highlight of a streak of young hair stretched across the tracks as it stitches itself to the sun. It carries the light of an old flame's eyes, the crown of light from the tops of our heads into the horizon. Maybe we fell in love because we stood before each other as far away - all the places we could go wavering along our edges - the tips of our strands, but everything open has since sealed itself matte as flowers in wall-paper, stowed away in self-preservation - a corsage as prescient as petals pressed between laminates. There is a landscape made in the
Literature
waver
dance with me in this breeze scented with warm sunset cinnamon; let it play with your sweet baby hairs and loose little tears and tiny little worries until the dying light seeps into your soul and you transform now a half-wavering creature made of twilight and faerydust shimmer me, my darling! I want to be your rainbow sherbet girl: the moon dirt to your faerydust, the dusky grey dawn to your burning embers almost-night-light, the sharp newborn starlight to your heavy-bloody-deathless light catch my scent of cedar and citrus on the rain-speckled wind and follow me, humming-skylark-songbird lover of mine let’s waver together amongst the trees and remind the deciduous ones why pines rule them all when your lovely-sweet-sharp scent surrounds me with a crisp kind of warmth, all I can think of is h o m e
Literature
Roses
Wherever True Love's Embrace may Be. Whatever two souls wrap their arms, around each other like a beautiful rose. Isn't that a beautiful sight to see? May we all show sympathy, for the young and the weak? But some people are too meek, to see what love is. It's right in front of them! You just have to know where. Wherever True Love's Embrace may be. Whatever if you grow stronger, or you just wither away in the darkness. Love is shrouded with mystery, whether your backstabbed or loved. For the far and the close, scatter kind, and empathetic words. Roses are red which also means trust. Roses mean everlasting love, And everlasting peace. Wherever True Love's Embrace may be. Whatever your meek or afraid of. Don't be afraid, you are special. A special heart but with quiet lips. Love like there is no tomorrow. With its measures of joy or sorrow. It takes strength to step up, and it takes courage to be soft. Always, and always remember, It takes courage to surrender to love.
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© 2014 - 2024 madam--guillotine
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