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I don't know why he lies like that. Maybe if I see him tomorrow I can ask him.
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colossae5
searching for the quintessential through the phantasmagoria
06 October 2008 @ 01:42 am
18 September 2008 @ 11:48 pm
Far be it from me - I know the inclination of my heart,
To always give a second chance,
To blindly walk forth, hoping for your internal light
But I do not know you, and of what I do know you are a thief and a liar
I don't think I want to risk that.
I wouldn't jeopardize all I've stood by, for that.
You stole you broke and destroyed, claiming all in the name of love.
If that is love, I want no part. Stay far from me.
I doubt you can be honest, because you lie so much to yourself.
Don't even know if Rho could handle that.
To always give a second chance,
To blindly walk forth, hoping for your internal light
But I do not know you, and of what I do know you are a thief and a liar
I don't think I want to risk that.
I wouldn't jeopardize all I've stood by, for that.
You stole you broke and destroyed, claiming all in the name of love.
If that is love, I want no part. Stay far from me.
I doubt you can be honest, because you lie so much to yourself.
Don't even know if Rho could handle that.
12 September 2008 @ 12:29 am
They say when what you love becomes a picture, to never take your eyes off it, lest you miss the moment it comes back to life.
In that marble hall, by the pillar, on the wall, was the frame. The Jester of Avalon, in his black and white harlequin. The girl, her eyes riveted on it, leapt up. She could have sworn he turned his head, cracked a smile, and blinked.
He was coming back, like she knew he would
In that marble hall, by the pillar, on the wall, was the frame. The Jester of Avalon, in his black and white harlequin. The girl, her eyes riveted on it, leapt up. She could have sworn he turned his head, cracked a smile, and blinked.
He was coming back, like she knew he would
12 September 2008 @ 12:15 am
The were-creature stretched out. So much had happened. She chuckled. They say every panwere was looking for its true form, its own skin so to speak. Like a hermit crab yearns for its own shell.
But what if you could teach a hermit crab how to make its own? Panwere were always forced to take the shape of the most powerful animal in the forest. But what if the most powerful animal in the forest was itself a panwere?
Prime shape-shifters, imitators, skin chameleons, designed to blend in, to not be considered unusual or remarkable.
But a panwere at home? What do they look like?
Shimmering on the wings of dawn
Crimson, purple, magenta, red
sky blue, shining, eyes like stars
Rising high, soaring on gleaming wings
Sliding through the undergrowth,
Sea green, glinting scales
Omnipresent, fast as light
We are pure energy. We are Panwere.
She drew a deep breath. This was it. The new beginning. The whole forest teamed with new life. Buds on trees, flowers just opening their petals. Endless potential.
She thought back briefly to the burnt forest, the destruction, the fitting in. Not a part of me, I never meant to be, apart of my surroundings all the time. She thought about how the Body and Skull, well, was now just Bones. Good old Bones working hard behind the bar.
Oh, what freedom came from non-conformity. Sweet liberation. Be true. Be genuine.
Be unashamedly you.
But what if you could teach a hermit crab how to make its own? Panwere were always forced to take the shape of the most powerful animal in the forest. But what if the most powerful animal in the forest was itself a panwere?
Prime shape-shifters, imitators, skin chameleons, designed to blend in, to not be considered unusual or remarkable.
But a panwere at home? What do they look like?
Shimmering on the wings of dawn
Crimson, purple, magenta, red
sky blue, shining, eyes like stars
Rising high, soaring on gleaming wings
Sliding through the undergrowth,
Sea green, glinting scales
Omnipresent, fast as light
We are pure energy. We are Panwere.
She drew a deep breath. This was it. The new beginning. The whole forest teamed with new life. Buds on trees, flowers just opening their petals. Endless potential.
She thought back briefly to the burnt forest, the destruction, the fitting in. Not a part of me, I never meant to be, apart of my surroundings all the time. She thought about how the Body and Skull, well, was now just Bones. Good old Bones working hard behind the bar.
Oh, what freedom came from non-conformity. Sweet liberation. Be true. Be genuine.
Be unashamedly you.
31 August 2008 @ 11:53 pm
Buy now! Two for the price of one!
Retro models now back in stock! Limited editions return to the shelves!
Two for the price of one! Buy now!
while supplies last
Retro models now back in stock! Limited editions return to the shelves!
Two for the price of one! Buy now!
while supplies last
17 August 2008 @ 09:30 pm
Hearts have a hard time changing. Once chosen, love stays strong.
--
Or does it? Water replaced blood a long time ago. Did loyalties switch? Why? Will the thrall get that ring off, or will that master find her again?
--
One thing is certain: Death, and we love her, =D
--
Or does it? Water replaced blood a long time ago. Did loyalties switch? Why? Will the thrall get that ring off, or will that master find her again?
--
One thing is certain: Death, and we love her, =D
12 August 2008 @ 12:11 am
04 August 2008 @ 02:51 am
Having grown up in a culture of death, really Michael thought it shouldn't hurt this much.
---
As a child, he had run into the open doors of his father's office, and jump on his father's knee, behind that big ebony desk, from which he had see the lists and lists of names in The Big Black Order Book, had watched as his father rose, and with a lithe swish put on the big black cloak, and raise the scythe with a suple hand, before he would go off to work.
I mean, it's not every kid whose dad is Death, the Grim Reaper, whatever. But to Michael and his sister, he was just their dad. He would come home, shed the cloak and scythe and they would rush to greet him, and he would wrap them in a bear hug, and lift one of them onto his shoulders. Then momma would come in, and in later years she would be caring the baby. And dad would embrace her, and hold the baby, and such joy and love was had.
---
Then had come that tense day, before the chaos. Dad had been shut in his office all morning.
About noon, he came out, deathly pale, a single page - with a single name on it - in his hand. He called mother. She came, and was by his side in a moment. They conversed in low tones over the page, her jaw dropped, and the blood rushed from her face. From there, they disappeared to the office. All afternoon the strange and foreign sound of the telephone rang, and tense conversation could be heard.
At least they had warning.
---
He remembered the master bedroom, the dark drapery suddenly clammy and repulsive rather than warm and welcoming as it had been. His father lay stretched on the bed, propped up by pillows. Fatally ill. Getting worse by the day, mother always by his side
And he remembered Uncle, with a ledger, always tapping the pen, always looking as though he were calculating something difficult in his head.
And the nurses, in and out always looking slightly confused, as though they had problems with memory.
And in the corner by the door, he remmebered the scythe, and a few times his sister would come in and play with it. It had the same dark glow in her hands as it had had with their father.
And he remmebered not being able to look any longer, and rushing out of the house into the open fields.
---
---
The weather had the it-might-rain-eventually quality about it, the grass was green and the loam was soft. You could smell the freshly turned earth, and it was rich and good.
Michael, dressed in prim, pressed, ruffling black silk, stood near his mother, who was shrouded in black veil and gauze. One of her hands twisted a bone white handkerchief, the other clutched the pudgey hand of her youngest son, just barely a toddler. Older now, Michael knew how this worked. Other mourners were present too, all dressed in black.
His sister would not be attending. At least not in the familiar sense.
The black glossy casket was lowered slowly, by his father's brothers. White lilies and queen anne's lace draped the coffin, and lightly rose from urns scattered about in the grass.
---
He heard the alarm clock go off, but he was pretty sure it was actually in his dream, the one he set up so he could go grab the newspaper from his sister. So he rolled over, and went back to sleep.
And found himself there. Again.
He stood a long way off, dressed this time in pure white. He sought out the other invisible attendee, scanning the grove on the far side for her. At last, he saw her shrouded in black, hovering over amongst the trees, silent and watching.
Then he looked before him, and saw it all again:
He saw himself, in black, awkwardly shuffle to his mother's aid as the toddler squirmed out of her grasp. Himself in black setting aside his own grief to hold and comfort his mother as she mourned, and later crack a smile at his little brother to get him to calm down.
He couldn't watched it all again, but he knew every stroke that happened:
His father's brothers lowering down the casket, the white lilies and queen anne's lace.
He removed his [still black] cavalier hat, and held it to his chest, as a single tear escaped out, over his cheek.
---
He felt himself waken, and knew the tear was real. He lay still for a while, wishing he could sleep, but knowing where he would go. Cautiously, silently, he slipped out of bed, so as not to waken Cassandra.
First he went to the window, and just watched the darkened sky for awhile. But it did not pass.
As he closed the door on his way out, he turned to watch her as she slept, hoping her dreams were sweet and peaceful
---
Cassandra gently awakened, and reached out for Michael's hand. But her hand clutched at empty air. She rolled over to face her lover, but found his side vacant, save the crinkles in his pillow. Then she noticed a neatly creased note, in his impeccable hand: "Gone out. Be back later." She moved the note, eagerly hoping for his eminant return. The minutes past. Flouncing over, she embraced his pillow, savoring his scent. When she laid her cheek on it, she felt the dampness of his tears.
She sat bolt upright. This was not normal. She gracefully leapt up and, flying to the door, swirled into a light, lacey wrap. She noticed his riding boots were still conspicuously at the door, and his hat still on the peg. Oh no
---
She found him out in the StarField, where they had first met so long ago, where she had told him he was her husband, when they ha both been children.
The morning air was sweet, and the grass was lush with dew.
She found him knelt in the center of the grass, looking anguished, staring up at the sky, eyes closed.
"Michael?"
"What? Go away, leave me alone"
She took a step closer
"Michael, I brought your slippers"
"No. I need to feel the dirt in my toes"
She was beside him now, and laid a hand on his shoulder, whispering his name.
"No. Leave me alone. [pause] Hold me." and he turned, and clung to her, grieving.
---
As a child, he had run into the open doors of his father's office, and jump on his father's knee, behind that big ebony desk, from which he had see the lists and lists of names in The Big Black Order Book, had watched as his father rose, and with a lithe swish put on the big black cloak, and raise the scythe with a suple hand, before he would go off to work.
I mean, it's not every kid whose dad is Death, the Grim Reaper, whatever. But to Michael and his sister, he was just their dad. He would come home, shed the cloak and scythe and they would rush to greet him, and he would wrap them in a bear hug, and lift one of them onto his shoulders. Then momma would come in, and in later years she would be caring the baby. And dad would embrace her, and hold the baby, and such joy and love was had.
---
Then had come that tense day, before the chaos. Dad had been shut in his office all morning.
About noon, he came out, deathly pale, a single page - with a single name on it - in his hand. He called mother. She came, and was by his side in a moment. They conversed in low tones over the page, her jaw dropped, and the blood rushed from her face. From there, they disappeared to the office. All afternoon the strange and foreign sound of the telephone rang, and tense conversation could be heard.
At least they had warning.
---
He remembered the master bedroom, the dark drapery suddenly clammy and repulsive rather than warm and welcoming as it had been. His father lay stretched on the bed, propped up by pillows. Fatally ill. Getting worse by the day, mother always by his side
And he remembered Uncle, with a ledger, always tapping the pen, always looking as though he were calculating something difficult in his head.
And the nurses, in and out always looking slightly confused, as though they had problems with memory.
And in the corner by the door, he remmebered the scythe, and a few times his sister would come in and play with it. It had the same dark glow in her hands as it had had with their father.
And he remmebered not being able to look any longer, and rushing out of the house into the open fields.
---
---
The weather had the it-might-rain-eventually quality about it, the grass was green and the loam was soft. You could smell the freshly turned earth, and it was rich and good.
Michael, dressed in prim, pressed, ruffling black silk, stood near his mother, who was shrouded in black veil and gauze. One of her hands twisted a bone white handkerchief, the other clutched the pudgey hand of her youngest son, just barely a toddler. Older now, Michael knew how this worked. Other mourners were present too, all dressed in black.
His sister would not be attending. At least not in the familiar sense.
The black glossy casket was lowered slowly, by his father's brothers. White lilies and queen anne's lace draped the coffin, and lightly rose from urns scattered about in the grass.
---
He heard the alarm clock go off, but he was pretty sure it was actually in his dream, the one he set up so he could go grab the newspaper from his sister. So he rolled over, and went back to sleep.
And found himself there. Again.
He stood a long way off, dressed this time in pure white. He sought out the other invisible attendee, scanning the grove on the far side for her. At last, he saw her shrouded in black, hovering over amongst the trees, silent and watching.
Then he looked before him, and saw it all again:
He saw himself, in black, awkwardly shuffle to his mother's aid as the toddler squirmed out of her grasp. Himself in black setting aside his own grief to hold and comfort his mother as she mourned, and later crack a smile at his little brother to get him to calm down.
He couldn't watched it all again, but he knew every stroke that happened:
His father's brothers lowering down the casket, the white lilies and queen anne's lace.
He removed his [still black] cavalier hat, and held it to his chest, as a single tear escaped out, over his cheek.
---
He felt himself waken, and knew the tear was real. He lay still for a while, wishing he could sleep, but knowing where he would go. Cautiously, silently, he slipped out of bed, so as not to waken Cassandra.
First he went to the window, and just watched the darkened sky for awhile. But it did not pass.
As he closed the door on his way out, he turned to watch her as she slept, hoping her dreams were sweet and peaceful
---
Cassandra gently awakened, and reached out for Michael's hand. But her hand clutched at empty air. She rolled over to face her lover, but found his side vacant, save the crinkles in his pillow. Then she noticed a neatly creased note, in his impeccable hand: "Gone out. Be back later." She moved the note, eagerly hoping for his eminant return. The minutes past. Flouncing over, she embraced his pillow, savoring his scent. When she laid her cheek on it, she felt the dampness of his tears.
She sat bolt upright. This was not normal. She gracefully leapt up and, flying to the door, swirled into a light, lacey wrap. She noticed his riding boots were still conspicuously at the door, and his hat still on the peg. Oh no
---
She found him out in the StarField, where they had first met so long ago, where she had told him he was her husband, when they ha both been children.
The morning air was sweet, and the grass was lush with dew.
She found him knelt in the center of the grass, looking anguished, staring up at the sky, eyes closed.
"Michael?"
"What? Go away, leave me alone"
She took a step closer
"Michael, I brought your slippers"
"No. I need to feel the dirt in my toes"
She was beside him now, and laid a hand on his shoulder, whispering his name.
"No. Leave me alone. [pause] Hold me." and he turned, and clung to her, grieving.
01 August 2008 @ 08:52 pm
It's just me and my chains
---
Sitting on a low boulder, at the mouth of the cave, she fingered the worn metal rings, whispering "This one is for my home, this one is for the one who calls me soulmate, this is for the jesters...."
---
It's just me and my chains
and my scars
---
He was all decked out in a grim get-up: short sleeved black shirt, black leather gloves, with the matching riding boots hidden beneath long flaired black pants. Chains draped around and cross this outfit, harmonizing with the multitudinous fasteners and clasps, the likes of which I had not seen. Some additionally featured small pewter skulls, sterling coffins and every now and again, a fleur-de-lis. His belt was subtle, its leather blending with the black of his pants. His belt buckle, when visible, was a solid chunk of ebony, with a few lines suggesting a castle. The elegantly interwoven silver-and-black scabbard at his side was empty: the blade was in his hand.
He artfully manipulated the weapon, always making sure his hand was well protected, since there was a small tear in his right glove. (In fact, the sabre's guard bore the same magnificent engraving style as the scabbard.) His bear arms glistened as he moved through his forms. Though the bone-white feather atop his cavalier hat danced as he moved, his jet eyes looked steadfastly ahead as he practiced. He let out a huff to blow the stark white hair out of his eyes. Eventually, though, after a slip up, he gave in, and used his unarmed hand to brush it under his hat.
"Oh? You finally noticed."
Yes, I had to admit, I finally had the courage to look him in the face. He was a bit intimidating, didn't he know?
He looked at me amusedly, and extended his empty hand, and said "Hi, I'm Michael."
Taken aback, I got off to a stammering start "I- I- I- ," and ended by blurting out "I'm conducting a study, interviewing people about their scars."
He blinked a few times, and then raised his eyebrows, as if to say "Oh you are, are you?"
But, he played along. "Alright then," he began, as he seated himself on a nearby rock.
And as he sat, he thought to himself "This one I got from a rose that I loved, this one I got in a place I thought was safe, this one I got by creating, this one I got because I am flawed..."
---
It's just me and my chains
and my scars
and my love
---
Love is like a sabre blade, one you hold dear to your heart
Love is a spark in a darked night, love is a smiling face when all you have heart for is a frown
---
It's just me and my chains
and my scars
and my love
and my Death
---
"Definitely an experience and a half. How did they get ahold of my name?" Michael was non-nonchalantly slouched by his sister's desk, and pensively chewing on a toothpick. A cinnamon one to be precise.
Death looked up from writing in the Big Black Order Book, puzzled.
"I mean, didn't you just say you gave it to them?"
"Well, yeah, but what I meant was, why did that little kid come up to me? I'm not that strange, am I?"
Death raised an eyebrow, and looked him up and down.
"Well, you know they don't have zippers in this world..."
----
It's just me and my chains
and my scars
and my love
and my Death
and my heart
---
“To hide the key to your heart is to risk forgetting where you placed it.”
"Can even take the heart inside my chest..."
"We have...but only one heart, because the other is out there waiting to be found
"Those who do not know how to weep with their whole heart don't know how to laugh either."
"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart. And try to love the questions themselves."
“The greatest treasures are those invisible to the eye but found by the heart.”
"What the heart gives away is never gone, but kept in the hearts of others"
"You can lead a heart to love, but you can't make it fall."
"Love is giving someone the power to break your heart, And trusting them not to break it"
"Just because someone isn't there any more, doesn't mean we ever stop loving them"
----
It's just me and my scars
and my chains
and my love
and my Death
and my heart
and this half empty bottle
---
Sasha Kensley sat slumped in a corner of her kitchen, looking more dead than alive. She aimlessly swirling a vodka bottle. She wished they made stronger stuff these days. She felt awful. What was it that happened again? She couldn't remember. Well, at least the alcohol was doing its job there.
But no, because those macabre visions came. Dark memories of her past blended with the terrible projections of her future. Images of the Chetnack youth, the horrors that happened there, with the first wave of the Unhinged. Who knew people were capable of that? But worse, that you were capable of that? Which is why the visions came, why she knew she deserved the horrible fate in store for her. Oh that the bottle would work quickly! She took another swig.
Then in disgust, she spat it out, the voices telling her "You are sick! A drunkard like your old man! You will end up like him, short drop and a quick stop" Scoffing, she took another swig, "Ha! He gave alcohol up, that's why he went." Even now, the wound went deep. She couldn't say that laced word, that "suicide". He gave it up for them, she knew. For her, and for her mom. The voices chimed "Like you should give it up for Della. You love her, right?" Well, she did. What wasn't there to love about an alien that would kill someone if they threated her life? All's fair in love and war after all. Oh that Della would be here now. Maybe she could stop the ache. But who knows, maybe Della was here, and Sasha was just too far gone to see. So cynical she couldn't even see the kitchen floor.
Oh no, she thought with sinking dread. She was in her old house. She was getting closer. It was getting closer. She knew what she would find inside, but surely it wasn't time yet? Surely she had longer than this? But she kept moving closer, further in. She turned from the final door, seperating her from her death.
But the vision shifted. She was inside. But she was not alone. A tall, well proportioned maiden, with swirling long brown hair, and a deep purple cloak, wielding a scythe stood before her.
Shocked, Sasha asked "Who are you?"
The grave figure replied "I am Death"
Utterly confused, Sasha said "But whose death? My death?"
"I suppose you could say it that way, but usually I'm just Death."
----
That's it. It's just me. Me and my chains.
---
Sitting on a low boulder, at the mouth of the cave, she fingered the worn metal rings, whispering "This one is for my home, this one is for the one who calls me soulmate, this is for the jesters...."
---
It's just me and my chains
and my scars
---
He was all decked out in a grim get-up: short sleeved black shirt, black leather gloves, with the matching riding boots hidden beneath long flaired black pants. Chains draped around and cross this outfit, harmonizing with the multitudinous fasteners and clasps, the likes of which I had not seen. Some additionally featured small pewter skulls, sterling coffins and every now and again, a fleur-de-lis. His belt was subtle, its leather blending with the black of his pants. His belt buckle, when visible, was a solid chunk of ebony, with a few lines suggesting a castle. The elegantly interwoven silver-and-black scabbard at his side was empty: the blade was in his hand.
He artfully manipulated the weapon, always making sure his hand was well protected, since there was a small tear in his right glove. (In fact, the sabre's guard bore the same magnificent engraving style as the scabbard.) His bear arms glistened as he moved through his forms. Though the bone-white feather atop his cavalier hat danced as he moved, his jet eyes looked steadfastly ahead as he practiced. He let out a huff to blow the stark white hair out of his eyes. Eventually, though, after a slip up, he gave in, and used his unarmed hand to brush it under his hat.
"Oh? You finally noticed."
Yes, I had to admit, I finally had the courage to look him in the face. He was a bit intimidating, didn't he know?
He looked at me amusedly, and extended his empty hand, and said "Hi, I'm Michael."
Taken aback, I got off to a stammering start "I- I- I- ," and ended by blurting out "I'm conducting a study, interviewing people about their scars."
He blinked a few times, and then raised his eyebrows, as if to say "Oh you are, are you?"
But, he played along. "Alright then," he began, as he seated himself on a nearby rock.
And as he sat, he thought to himself "This one I got from a rose that I loved, this one I got in a place I thought was safe, this one I got by creating, this one I got because I am flawed..."
---
It's just me and my chains
and my scars
and my love
---
Love is like a sabre blade, one you hold dear to your heart
Love is a spark in a darked night, love is a smiling face when all you have heart for is a frown
---
It's just me and my chains
and my scars
and my love
and my Death
---
"Definitely an experience and a half. How did they get ahold of my name?" Michael was non-nonchalantly slouched by his sister's desk, and pensively chewing on a toothpick. A cinnamon one to be precise.
Death looked up from writing in the Big Black Order Book, puzzled.
"I mean, didn't you just say you gave it to them?"
"Well, yeah, but what I meant was, why did that little kid come up to me? I'm not that strange, am I?"
Death raised an eyebrow, and looked him up and down.
"Well, you know they don't have zippers in this world..."
----
It's just me and my chains
and my scars
and my love
and my Death
and my heart
---
“To hide the key to your heart is to risk forgetting where you placed it.”
"Can even take the heart inside my chest..."
"We have...but only one heart, because the other is out there waiting to be found
"Those who do not know how to weep with their whole heart don't know how to laugh either."
"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart. And try to love the questions themselves."
“The greatest treasures are those invisible to the eye but found by the heart.”
"What the heart gives away is never gone, but kept in the hearts of others"
"You can lead a heart to love, but you can't make it fall."
"Love is giving someone the power to break your heart, And trusting them not to break it"
"Just because someone isn't there any more, doesn't mean we ever stop loving them"
----
It's just me and my scars
and my chains
and my love
and my Death
and my heart
and this half empty bottle
---
Sasha Kensley sat slumped in a corner of her kitchen, looking more dead than alive. She aimlessly swirling a vodka bottle. She wished they made stronger stuff these days. She felt awful. What was it that happened again? She couldn't remember. Well, at least the alcohol was doing its job there.
But no, because those macabre visions came. Dark memories of her past blended with the terrible projections of her future. Images of the Chetnack youth, the horrors that happened there, with the first wave of the Unhinged. Who knew people were capable of that? But worse, that you were capable of that? Which is why the visions came, why she knew she deserved the horrible fate in store for her. Oh that the bottle would work quickly! She took another swig.
Then in disgust, she spat it out, the voices telling her "You are sick! A drunkard like your old man! You will end up like him, short drop and a quick stop" Scoffing, she took another swig, "Ha! He gave alcohol up, that's why he went." Even now, the wound went deep. She couldn't say that laced word, that "suicide". He gave it up for them, she knew. For her, and for her mom. The voices chimed "Like you should give it up for Della. You love her, right?" Well, she did. What wasn't there to love about an alien that would kill someone if they threated her life? All's fair in love and war after all. Oh that Della would be here now. Maybe she could stop the ache. But who knows, maybe Della was here, and Sasha was just too far gone to see. So cynical she couldn't even see the kitchen floor.
Oh no, she thought with sinking dread. She was in her old house. She was getting closer. It was getting closer. She knew what she would find inside, but surely it wasn't time yet? Surely she had longer than this? But she kept moving closer, further in. She turned from the final door, seperating her from her death.
But the vision shifted. She was inside. But she was not alone. A tall, well proportioned maiden, with swirling long brown hair, and a deep purple cloak, wielding a scythe stood before her.
Shocked, Sasha asked "Who are you?"
The grave figure replied "I am Death"
Utterly confused, Sasha said "But whose death? My death?"
"I suppose you could say it that way, but usually I'm just Death."
----
That's it. It's just me. Me and my chains.
01 August 2008 @ 08:40 pm
blind, toxic
crushed, regret
broken, bruised
Waiter, this wasn't what I ordered!
heart, bleeding
lines, seeing
blinking, storm
Doctor, I didn't ask for this!
hands, empty
elegy, static
radio, dark
Operator, this wasn't who I called!
epiphany, syringe
bottle, support
veins, plunge
Addict, I don't want a next fix!
chasm, graveyard
shell, hollow
waves, crashing
Undertaker, I never wanted this!
crushed, regret
broken, bruised
Waiter, this wasn't what I ordered!
heart, bleeding
lines, seeing
blinking, storm
Doctor, I didn't ask for this!
hands, empty
elegy, static
radio, dark
Operator, this wasn't who I called!
epiphany, syringe
bottle, support
veins, plunge
Addict, I don't want a next fix!
chasm, graveyard
shell, hollow
waves, crashing
Undertaker, I never wanted this!
21 July 2008 @ 03:13 am
One day I went for a stroll, a hike up those beautiful mountains
Picturesque, like moku hanga, or subtle brushwork
I went to her cave, where the ninja trained
Dressed in black, sharpest blades
I saw her then, to my surprise, stretched on the cool stone
Ashen skin, death's pallor, raven hair splayed out
Knife in neck, that was her dark fate
The edge just above her lucky charm, her sacred necklace
To my surprise I spotted then, the culprit still lingering there
Dagger just left hand, blood still warm on victim's neck
Crouched over the body, a nimble, graceful form,
But cloaked and hooded [who wasn't these days?]
Ruffles and swirling cape spoke regality
But training obviously for war.
Scorn, confusion, resolution mingled there
As she considered what she'd ended
Who was this?
Her love was always true, but now it was free too
She destroyed something she despised
While keeping everything she loved alive
The wide and the deep, the hills were still hers
She had reclaimed the mountains from herself
Picturesque, like moku hanga, or subtle brushwork
I went to her cave, where the ninja trained
Dressed in black, sharpest blades
I saw her then, to my surprise, stretched on the cool stone
Ashen skin, death's pallor, raven hair splayed out
Knife in neck, that was her dark fate
The edge just above her lucky charm, her sacred necklace
To my surprise I spotted then, the culprit still lingering there
Dagger just left hand, blood still warm on victim's neck
Crouched over the body, a nimble, graceful form,
But cloaked and hooded [who wasn't these days?]
Ruffles and swirling cape spoke regality
But training obviously for war.
Scorn, confusion, resolution mingled there
As she considered what she'd ended
Who was this?
Her love was always true, but now it was free too
She destroyed something she despised
While keeping everything she loved alive
The wide and the deep, the hills were still hers
She had reclaimed the mountains from herself
06 July 2008 @ 05:02 pm
..I haven't been here in years. What was I doing? Where did the time go? I don't remember. Ot could be I just woke up - I don't feel aged. But this place, is so old. That old inn I used to know, the Bluebelle? Totally ruined. Empty, nothing left. Whatever bright spirit once inhabited it is now gone, the happiness just a memory.
The trees, too are about 12 years older too. All the oaks, they had been so young, are now creaking with age. I draw my fur cloak tighter against me, to keep out the chill.
The sky hangs empty. No moon. There is a void to my left, an empty space, where my companion once walked.
Backtracking my old path, I come to the Bone and Skull. Still black and white, stark as ever, but now little lights glimmer in the windows and across the edge of the roof. I check the sign. It seems to be "Ferret and Snake" these days. Same bartender, though. Same waitress too. They seem happier though.
Over in the corner, I spot a ranger, by herself, enjoying a beer. They never used to come in here. It used to just be those rowdy crowds. But now it's even more peaceful, more how it used to be.
But who am I? What am I? I rest my hand on the doorframe, staring in at this happy scene, feeling like a peeping Tom, knowing it would be intrusive to enter.
I shuffle back down the wooden steps, wondering. When did my Library fall into disrepair? Are there still elves deep in the woods? I know the damaged caused by the forest fire is regrowing, but sometimes I wonder how much of this place is left for me, old traveler that I am.
I reach out into that hungry void beside me, hoping for a helping hand. Just air. Just nothing. Don't mind me.
No moon. Sky empty.
The trees, too are about 12 years older too. All the oaks, they had been so young, are now creaking with age. I draw my fur cloak tighter against me, to keep out the chill.
The sky hangs empty. No moon. There is a void to my left, an empty space, where my companion once walked.
Backtracking my old path, I come to the Bone and Skull. Still black and white, stark as ever, but now little lights glimmer in the windows and across the edge of the roof. I check the sign. It seems to be "Ferret and Snake" these days. Same bartender, though. Same waitress too. They seem happier though.
Over in the corner, I spot a ranger, by herself, enjoying a beer. They never used to come in here. It used to just be those rowdy crowds. But now it's even more peaceful, more how it used to be.
But who am I? What am I? I rest my hand on the doorframe, staring in at this happy scene, feeling like a peeping Tom, knowing it would be intrusive to enter.
I shuffle back down the wooden steps, wondering. When did my Library fall into disrepair? Are there still elves deep in the woods? I know the damaged caused by the forest fire is regrowing, but sometimes I wonder how much of this place is left for me, old traveler that I am.
I reach out into that hungry void beside me, hoping for a helping hand. Just air. Just nothing. Don't mind me.
No moon. Sky empty.
01 July 2008 @ 08:52 pm
Sometimes I wonder, at times like these
With the cogs in my chest, and the gears in my knees
My Maker, he made me, all I feel is this ache
Deep down in my chest when I lie awake
When other children grieved, I couldn't cry
While I ought to be weeping, my eyes are still dry
And about that laughter, I thought we faked it well
After all, since when did serious sell?
What do I do when I'm a facsimile of me,
With chain-driven sprockets, and a brief guarantee?
Well built and well crafted I'm tough and I'm stout
So well designed, just one thing left out
Those feelings, you see, no one knew what to do
My heart they left empty, then turned the last screw
Or perhaps it's just me, and I'm somehow flawed
See my grin here, I'm a nice happy fraud
I don't feel a thing, just my old sinking heart
A hollow, an empty, like when clouds come apart
Those tears they don't come, laughter is silenced
I look at myself, and remain unconvinced:
Those cogs in my chest
Were they really the best?
With the cogs in my chest, and the gears in my knees
My Maker, he made me, all I feel is this ache
Deep down in my chest when I lie awake
When other children grieved, I couldn't cry
While I ought to be weeping, my eyes are still dry
And about that laughter, I thought we faked it well
After all, since when did serious sell?
What do I do when I'm a facsimile of me,
With chain-driven sprockets, and a brief guarantee?
Well built and well crafted I'm tough and I'm stout
So well designed, just one thing left out
Those feelings, you see, no one knew what to do
My heart they left empty, then turned the last screw
Or perhaps it's just me, and I'm somehow flawed
See my grin here, I'm a nice happy fraud
I don't feel a thing, just my old sinking heart
A hollow, an empty, like when clouds come apart
Those tears they don't come, laughter is silenced
I look at myself, and remain unconvinced:
Those cogs in my chest
Were they really the best?
01 June 2008 @ 04:35 am
21 May 2008 @ 10:50 pm
Standing in that dark oval room Michael loathed that it was not his father behind the big shiny ebony desk. The bone-white papers on the desk were obsessively neat. He had the urge to go mess them all up, and then jump up and ruffle his father's hair. He winced. But it wasn't his father behind the desk. It was his uncle. A bitter man. He hoped his father would get well soon.
"Why are you here, Michael?"
Though his face betrayed nothing, Omar was frustrated: His nephew ought to realize everyone had work to do.
Michael replied stormily: "Isn't it enough that I came to see my uncle?" He jerked his coat on, and made to leave.
"Don't speak to me in that tone, young man!"
"Hey! It's not my fault that every time I come here no-one can get any work done! That's just the way the genes worked out!" he snarled.
"Michael, Michael, you're not your little science-y world now. Don't use words like that here. No one will know what you talking about" was the condescending and patronizing reply.
"Uncle, I don't care! I love it there! I want to go back! At least my sister loves me enough to let me stay there!!"
"Your duty is here, to this house, this castle, this world. You are being irresponsible. You went and destroyed it- destroyed everything, with your silly fantastical adventures!"
"You know that's not true! That's not the reason at all!
*****
Michael grinned. The room was finally as it should be. Papers strewn about, as though someone actually worked here. And his sister looked so ...natural behind the desk, her long hair billowing over her deep purple cloak, flowing down towards the floor. He looked questioningly at her, to which she replied:
"To be honest? The thought of ruling the world scares the hell out of me."
"Well, I'm confident you'll do a good job of it. Father made a good decision."
With that, he gave her one last hug, and pulled out his large pocket watch. With a glance at it, and with a swirl of his long black coat, he was gone.
*****
It's late in the evening, and pretty dark. The stars shine outside, but a cloud is over the moon. The local tavern is mostly empty, except for a few patrons in the back playing cards, and a few men near the fireplace. To be precise, three men sit near the fireplace, talking about local myths and legends about Death...
There's a legend where I come from, about Death's Floating Castle. The story goes that Death, you know, the Grim Reaper, lives in this black stone castle that floats up in the air. When someone is about to die, Death is obliged to come near. This causes the castle to blot out the light, casting a dark gloomy shadow over the whole area. It is by this shadow that you know Death is upon us.
Ha. That's crafty. And convenient. You always know when the worst is coming. I know a better one too. Where I come from, they say Death doesn't come in the form of a freakishly tall, hauntingly undead, skeletal, hooded figure. Rather, they say she comes in the form of a beautiful young woman. Lithe and graceful. Tall, yes. Haunting, yes. But alive and healthy. Well-endowed too, rumor has it.
Suddenly, a fourth figure, an shadowy, but in no way formidable youth, (perhaps previously over looked in the smoky room), chimes in:
Hmm, well, I've heard that before her, her old man was the Reaper, and most of the legends came from him. He was a good man. Actually, between them someone else was Reaper for a while. And that's where most of the like skeletal/undead imagery comes from. It was her uncle, I think? At any rate, Death is like a position, and it's hereditary.
How intriguing. I've heard all of those myths, and more. I've heard that she has a brother -a twin even- named Michael. Some say he was even the one who set her up in office. Shirking his inherited duty is what I heard. They say he left to go to another land. But he visits every now and again, and on those days a great beam of light comes down from the Castle and Death can touch no one.
That last point I can't deny...I've seen it myself...
As inconspicuously as he had joined them, the youth faded into the background. Some say they saw a flash of incandescent white hair under his hood, and others swear he pulled out an obnoxious pocketwatch before departing, though no one could say at what point he was actually gone.
*****
Michael chuckled, and slipped his watch back into his pocket. With all of this talk about her, he felt it was time to pay his sister a visit...
*****
Death walked in, to find Michael reclining on the ebony chair of her desk. Coal black riding boots casually kicked off, cavalier hat beside him on the table, bleach white hair starkly contrasting with the black silk of his ruffled shirt.
"What are you doing here?" She asked in utter surprise
"Waiting for you. I would have waited in your room, but it was too hot," he replied nonchalantly.
"But what if I didn't come?"
"Well I was planning to have coffee with Sandra anyway..." He trailed off.
She raised an eyebrow, and leaned her scythe up against the wall.
He shrugged, collected his belongings, and got up, pulling the chair out for her as he went.
"Why are you here, Michael?"
Though her face betrayed nothing but surprise at his presence, she was little frustrated. Didn't he know she had work to do?
"Isn't it enough that I came to see my sister? I'm sorry. I'll go. I know how you hate not being able get anything done." He jerked his coat off the back of the chair and made to leave.
She sensed his irritation and put out a hand to dissuade him.
"Michael, it's not your fault that every time you come here I can't get any work done. It's not like that at all. That's just the way it worked out. Stay awhile."
"Why are you here, Michael?"
Though his face betrayed nothing, Omar was frustrated: His nephew ought to realize everyone had work to do.
Michael replied stormily: "Isn't it enough that I came to see my uncle?" He jerked his coat on, and made to leave.
"Don't speak to me in that tone, young man!"
"Hey! It's not my fault that every time I come here no-one can get any work done! That's just the way the genes worked out!" he snarled.
"Michael, Michael, you're not your little science-y world now. Don't use words like that here. No one will know what you talking about" was the condescending and patronizing reply.
"Uncle, I don't care! I love it there! I want to go back! At least my sister loves me enough to let me stay there!!"
"Your duty is here, to this house, this castle, this world. You are being irresponsible. You went and destroyed it- destroyed everything, with your silly fantastical adventures!"
"You know that's not true! That's not the reason at all!
*****
Michael grinned. The room was finally as it should be. Papers strewn about, as though someone actually worked here. And his sister looked so ...natural behind the desk, her long hair billowing over her deep purple cloak, flowing down towards the floor. He looked questioningly at her, to which she replied:
"To be honest? The thought of ruling the world scares the hell out of me."
"Well, I'm confident you'll do a good job of it. Father made a good decision."
With that, he gave her one last hug, and pulled out his large pocket watch. With a glance at it, and with a swirl of his long black coat, he was gone.
*****
It's late in the evening, and pretty dark. The stars shine outside, but a cloud is over the moon. The local tavern is mostly empty, except for a few patrons in the back playing cards, and a few men near the fireplace. To be precise, three men sit near the fireplace, talking about local myths and legends about Death...
There's a legend where I come from, about Death's Floating Castle. The story goes that Death, you know, the Grim Reaper, lives in this black stone castle that floats up in the air. When someone is about to die, Death is obliged to come near. This causes the castle to blot out the light, casting a dark gloomy shadow over the whole area. It is by this shadow that you know Death is upon us.
Ha. That's crafty. And convenient. You always know when the worst is coming. I know a better one too. Where I come from, they say Death doesn't come in the form of a freakishly tall, hauntingly undead, skeletal, hooded figure. Rather, they say she comes in the form of a beautiful young woman. Lithe and graceful. Tall, yes. Haunting, yes. But alive and healthy. Well-endowed too, rumor has it.
Suddenly, a fourth figure, an shadowy, but in no way formidable youth, (perhaps previously over looked in the smoky room), chimes in:
Hmm, well, I've heard that before her, her old man was the Reaper, and most of the legends came from him. He was a good man. Actually, between them someone else was Reaper for a while. And that's where most of the like skeletal/undead imagery comes from. It was her uncle, I think? At any rate, Death is like a position, and it's hereditary.
How intriguing. I've heard all of those myths, and more. I've heard that she has a brother -a twin even- named Michael. Some say he was even the one who set her up in office. Shirking his inherited duty is what I heard. They say he left to go to another land. But he visits every now and again, and on those days a great beam of light comes down from the Castle and Death can touch no one.
That last point I can't deny...I've seen it myself...
As inconspicuously as he had joined them, the youth faded into the background. Some say they saw a flash of incandescent white hair under his hood, and others swear he pulled out an obnoxious pocketwatch before departing, though no one could say at what point he was actually gone.
*****
Michael chuckled, and slipped his watch back into his pocket. With all of this talk about her, he felt it was time to pay his sister a visit...
*****
Death walked in, to find Michael reclining on the ebony chair of her desk. Coal black riding boots casually kicked off, cavalier hat beside him on the table, bleach white hair starkly contrasting with the black silk of his ruffled shirt.
"What are you doing here?" She asked in utter surprise
"Waiting for you. I would have waited in your room, but it was too hot," he replied nonchalantly.
"But what if I didn't come?"
"Well I was planning to have coffee with Sandra anyway..." He trailed off.
She raised an eyebrow, and leaned her scythe up against the wall.
He shrugged, collected his belongings, and got up, pulling the chair out for her as he went.
"Why are you here, Michael?"
Though her face betrayed nothing but surprise at his presence, she was little frustrated. Didn't he know she had work to do?
"Isn't it enough that I came to see my sister? I'm sorry. I'll go. I know how you hate not being able get anything done." He jerked his coat off the back of the chair and made to leave.
She sensed his irritation and put out a hand to dissuade him.
"Michael, it's not your fault that every time you come here I can't get any work done. It's not like that at all. That's just the way it worked out. Stay awhile."
21 May 2008 @ 02:53 am
Haha!
I leap for joy, and shake the dew off my fur. Leaping high I twist and turn. Sweet liberation.
The forest is mine. I am free. I float and leap, vaulting into the air. Pleasantly contorting in the light. I've rarely known such freedom.
I leap for joy, and shake the dew off my fur. Leaping high I twist and turn. Sweet liberation.
The forest is mine. I am free. I float and leap, vaulting into the air. Pleasantly contorting in the light. I've rarely known such freedom.
18 May 2008 @ 02:01 am
two days til the full moon. two days til the end of time. Or, time as we knew it.
Whatever. That old wolf howls deep. What do I do? Did i transport in time? But I have changed and he has changed. Do I still know him? Did I ever?
And what on earth to do with the rest? I effortlessly follow Shadow Walker, but I doubt this is what the forest calls for.
I want it all to melt away. I know I lack the strength to hold on this moon. Ha. I will be blissfully gone. Bliss. Children and animals together in Paradise. Why to animals have an innocence we humans lack? Or do they? Are they not as bloodthirsty and brutal as we?
I should sleep. But I'm weaving the Thread of my Dreams. But my fingers slip, and I'm loosing grip. How long can I hold on?
Oh that blissful sleep of forgetfulness. Can it take me?
Whatever. That old wolf howls deep. What do I do? Did i transport in time? But I have changed and he has changed. Do I still know him? Did I ever?
And what on earth to do with the rest? I effortlessly follow Shadow Walker, but I doubt this is what the forest calls for.
I want it all to melt away. I know I lack the strength to hold on this moon. Ha. I will be blissfully gone. Bliss. Children and animals together in Paradise. Why to animals have an innocence we humans lack? Or do they? Are they not as bloodthirsty and brutal as we?
I should sleep. But I'm weaving the Thread of my Dreams. But my fingers slip, and I'm loosing grip. How long can I hold on?
Oh that blissful sleep of forgetfulness. Can it take me?
14 May 2008 @ 11:53 pm
waxing gibbous.
It's just that awkward time, waiting for the full moon. Waiting, trembling, aching.
Why do we have this fear of the future, yet we strive so hard to control it? It is our dream and our nightmare, our pleasure and our terror.
I sighed. What to do? The old pebbles worn smooth. I heard a whisper on the wind the elf-wolf that bit me is coming back. But what does that mean? Will I even know him?
The clouds obscured the stars, but the breeze carried the aroma of spring. I heard rumours of fairies in secluded places.
I chuckled cynically, adjusting my collar. What is this? Why would one enslave oneself? Why is it when we feel out of control, we put others in control, or demand to control them? We have no concept of self responsibility. I breathed out. It was so relaxing
There is only now. This is the beginning of eternity. Is it everything you dreamed that it would be?
It's just that awkward time, waiting for the full moon. Waiting, trembling, aching.
Why do we have this fear of the future, yet we strive so hard to control it? It is our dream and our nightmare, our pleasure and our terror.
I sighed. What to do? The old pebbles worn smooth. I heard a whisper on the wind the elf-wolf that bit me is coming back. But what does that mean? Will I even know him?
The clouds obscured the stars, but the breeze carried the aroma of spring. I heard rumours of fairies in secluded places.
I chuckled cynically, adjusting my collar. What is this? Why would one enslave oneself? Why is it when we feel out of control, we put others in control, or demand to control them? We have no concept of self responsibility. I breathed out. It was so relaxing
There is only now. This is the beginning of eternity. Is it everything you dreamed that it would be?
04 May 2008 @ 03:24 am
The nape of my neck twinged with that old feeling. The bite. The infection. That raging lycanthropy. This blissful curse.
I chuckled.
She was with me. I wondered. Did she feel the soft moon's pull? Would it be white fur as I envisioned?
I cracked my neck. Massaged that old wound. How long had it been? No moon tonight, no blissful release. Just this old pain, this worn body.
Or was it some diceit, that she felt it? That pull, that inner yearning? Did her blind eyes see?
The path was worn, the stones were smooth. I didn't care. I rubbed the back of my neck again. How I wished it would take me! I leaned against the fence, aching. I laughed. Each month had this, this amused agony. But tonight, tonight it felt much nearer it had to when I'd been bit first. That first calling, first cry to the Moon. Why?
Her cloak swished against me. She continued speaking softly. I was mystified. Why did I feel as though she was trying to convince me to convince her to get bit?
I chuckled.
She was with me. I wondered. Did she feel the soft moon's pull? Would it be white fur as I envisioned?
I cracked my neck. Massaged that old wound. How long had it been? No moon tonight, no blissful release. Just this old pain, this worn body.
Or was it some diceit, that she felt it? That pull, that inner yearning? Did her blind eyes see?
The path was worn, the stones were smooth. I didn't care. I rubbed the back of my neck again. How I wished it would take me! I leaned against the fence, aching. I laughed. Each month had this, this amused agony. But tonight, tonight it felt much nearer it had to when I'd been bit first. That first calling, first cry to the Moon. Why?
Her cloak swished against me. She continued speaking softly. I was mystified. Why did I feel as though she was trying to convince me to convince her to get bit?
28 April 2008 @ 10:27 pm
Stumbling. Gravel. Blood. A knife.
The leather jerkin didn't prevent the blow. Didn't turn aside the blade's sharp edge.
Fused over fire, sharpened over stone, that blade cut deep.
Yeah, the blow had been dodged and parried, sure, we'd tended the wound.
But the tip of the blade stuck, twisting in, burning.
Black poison seeps up through the veins
"Regret, is a needle in my neck, it's slowly fillin me with poison, spreading to my chest...."
The leather jerkin didn't prevent the blow. Didn't turn aside the blade's sharp edge.
Fused over fire, sharpened over stone, that blade cut deep.
Yeah, the blow had been dodged and parried, sure, we'd tended the wound.
But the tip of the blade stuck, twisting in, burning.
Black poison seeps up through the veins
"Regret, is a needle in my neck, it's slowly fillin me with poison, spreading to my chest...."