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Dream TravelFrom here
This constant distance constricts me and transcends me
as I travel through my dreams.
I see myself in shattered mirrors; a million shards of unfading hope crying for resolve.
And then I turn to see myself now, staring into the abyss, as if waiting for some kind of madness.
As present moves to past, the abyss becomes a door,
through which I move into the future.
My dreams suddenly, gradually crossfade into ever-vivid reality.
I travel further.
The events following resemble deja-vu, and perchance such is so of some lost prophetic vision;
change, like a thief in the night, from mere shards to to being they once were,
like a forgotten best friend.
OuroborosOuroboros am I
who eats his tail and watches it bleed
day after day, as if in a temporal prison of his own device.
I stand at the threshold of eternity,
and if I were so inclined I would seize it and wield it unfalteringly,
and become at peace.
But my eyes are clouded by the illusion of time's ashes blown away,
leaving me but to eat my tail further
and watch it bleed again.
I am a martyr of chaos,
a sleepless dreamer,
a hero unborn.
I am Ouroboros.
Songbird CageFree men entrapped in a cage gilded by faith alone
sing their despairing song,
which sings of a hope close to their heart and
yet so far away,
and echoes the inevitable,
for which they wait and hope for so strongly.
The gaoler, too, is a prisoner to melancholy,
wilting his heart
and burning his mind with a whisper of freedom;
which falls on deaf ears for one so queer
as to be blind to happiness.
And so the caged song sings
"Let the gaoler be free!"
and goes unsung by the gaoler's lies,
like all others an inner death of its speaker
or a cure for his blindness perchance,
but inevitably consequential.
Metropolis, Citadel of DreamAwakening is a blindness through which wisdom can see;
dreaming is the solvent that brings it into being.
This dreaming is becoming of the meek,
whom are beckoned by it.
Life, love, death, and time: these visions of the meek
Are the construction of Metropolis, the citadel of dream.
Its stance is erect as it reaches for the light with cloudless breath;
the light of the ever-giving night which it harbors.
The flora of the heart is growing in its gardens,
which whispers poetry to the sprite hiding behind your eyes.
There is a silence in the streets cracking at the seems
waiting for the song of a songbird freed.
Perchance it would be freed by that sprite never seen,
and sing thus a song of harmony in spring:
"The temptress of murder is a martyr of nightmare
whom might dwell in shadow but is scarcely found,
if you see her be aware and unafraid
for she will pass like a ripple in a pond,
perhaps without a word."
And if this song t'were heard,
all betwixt heaven an
Another WorldThere lies an oasis in the desert of time,
which manifests as a rainforest of strangers and creatures.
This is a theater of untold depths which screens the cosmos itself,
wherein a vigil lies at which people pray every day for revolution.
Gay horses may be crowned as kings of fantasy lands here;
lands vastly perverted yet beautiful as the heavens.
This is another world altogether, beyond the sleepless wall of dreams,
where a faceless dark white man hides in the trees.
the natural order is maintained by chaos and sacrilege,
there are squids who swim with schizoid maidens in the deepest regions of the moonlight,
and every face is a hallucinogenic masquerade.
I have seen firsthand the creatures that dwell in here:
the smiling killer with the eyes of abyssal fire,
the man who scoffs laughingly on his soapbox at the strangers who envelop him,
the great collective of Clover, flawlessly lawless in their garden whose flora is nightmares of mass repulsion,
the stand-up prophe
The Poet of LogicOther poets write from their heart,
she rights from her logical mind.
She communicates her poetry with her actions, awkward and occasionally cryptic.
Those who can read it are rare and seldom found,
leaving her well-organized verses to be a perpetual charade;
a charade that teaches her what logic has yet known,
so that perchance she might see what her poetry could sow
if only it were read.
To Define InnocenceShe was like an untold mystery revealed at last,
a hiding bud of strange beauty now in bloom for all to see.
But she was seen by the blind eyes of some to be hideous;
and they banished her, deeming her an exile.
She was a misfit, a novelty unlike any of her kind,
now bearing a name forbidden.
A name spoken so many times in petitions for her freedom,
written by those who've seen her well and fear her not,
but whose words fall on deaf ears
leaving their writers but to cry for their beloved exile,
and sleeplessly await a miracle perchance inevitable for their tears yet unseen;
tears of acid rain for their former friends, whom are her masters.
A Foresight of Harmony (the Inner Sprite)Abashed I lay upon a flowerbed
betwixt the heavens seeping from the Earth
and an an abyssal crevice of my heart,
relaying scintillating shadows cast by my dreams.
Cascades of torrential clairvoyance,
from a stranger in my psyche I know not the origin of,
relinquish to me the unforsaken awakening that prudence had yet to bear;
where once stillness would silence the discord of an empty mental vacuum,
an echo of my reflection, bearing the appearance of a benevolent sprite, nullifies it.
As if under the breathless wing of an eternal epoch
I witness myself unhinged from whereupon the mental vacuum forms,
gliding tranquilly into the cosmos.
Transcendence, it seems, becomes of me then,
gently, euphorically taking form as a spiritual sprite,
its presence felt vividly in my being.
Such occurrences have long been known to exist in fantasy,
beyond the realm of logic; where I made my bed of flowers,
and from there I have seen the silent death of wickedness,
The Alicorn A celestial presence hangs upon the whispering winds, unsung by the prosaic fates,
pertaining to a vigil of majesty told of in transcendent scriptures. Whereupon this occurrence,
tales of dissent fall on deaf ears in the midst of these echoes of future yore,
echoes of the flutter of the wings of memory carrying a single clover of fortune.
And thus the Alicorn shall speak, with a voice know by that memory, and bring our peace,
to be the kindle of a spirit in our hearts, the same as was borne in our journey to this place
where the whispering winds blow. And this journey shall continue as we spread the wings
of memory, a transmutation of the stillness of time into our grace upon this land.
is the scalding breath of winter.
the piss-thin streaks of dandruff snow,
is a kid afraid to be standing
in that corner because of that madman
with that coarse, red face and
but now he's sleeping
under a ragged coat,
so it might be safe? no, no,
this is the wrong memory,
this is not
how he would like
to have him etched...
standing alert and smoking
brand of cigarettes
and twirling that sad stub with
long frost-tinged fingers
back when he would respond
to his feeble
"what are you waiting for?.."
for a bark.
nothing else to wait for!.."
"the steel ship."
untitled.the dirt between
running, soles like
humming thunder whisper
hush, but these walls are made of
(i can't hear you).
chest burning, soaring-
past lives mumbling like
a burnt out radio,
you grace the ground with
and your bare feet
brush in the quiet
against the buzz of the earth
in a field of
a pocket full of posies;
we all fall down...
what exactly awaits us
when our mind and body
simply shut down forever?
will we be remembered by
the things we did or the
people whose hearts we
that's part of life,
all things eventually wilt,
death - an inevitable event.
a girl bullied for who she is
was found (almost) dead in her
own room, her life
hanging on by a thread
while her body
hung on a noose
that was tightly knotted
with hate and self-pity;
why must the bullying continue
after all this time?
she liked girls,
death crawls up walls,
waiting at every turn.
death sings a taunting
lullaby, hoping to lure
its victims into a pit.
death doesn't care
whether your pain was
self-inflicted or caused
death craves your soul,
not your body.
life gives you one chance
use it wisely.
always remember that
everyone has a different
story than you;
remember melightning steps
haunt the cargo hold
where they let them
doze off... drunken bastards...
lightning steps -
sharpshooter stab marks (neck,)
a stern mother
the glare... bewitched
to the portholes. memento mei,
as written on the daughter's amulet;
she clutches it unknowingly in her sleep.
(will she burn too?) the night is
young but she isn't
anymore; she doesn't
know it yet.
The Ramblings of a Frozen SoulIt is cold
My fingertips are the most repulsive shade of blue
And my feet linger within the vile chambers of my stomach
Desperation led to this
Fueled by madness
I would be walking out of the cave...
...Had I had the limbs to carry me there
It is cold
Too cold to even scream
But you know...
I do still miss her
The girl who used to be the thing known as my love
Or at least I miss the part of her that was... "alive"
She's still with me
I talk to her frequently
I remember just recently I asked if she'd marry me
She's still thinking about it
Within the chamber that she is suspended in
Sometimes, I wonder if maybe she can't see me
Sometimes I wonder if,
Even though her eyes are open,
She can't see through what's supposed to be a two-way window
Sometimes I think I'm talking through a one-way window
...I really hope I'm not.
Even though she's encased behind the ice
Even though I've lost all feeling
I still "feel" warm when I'm with her
Damn you northern winds
We Did NothingIt wasn't funny.
We looked at each other,
then to the front,
our doe eyes reflecting the neon bright question;
What do we do?
We could hear him,
feel his anguish,
but we did not know what to do.
we did nothing
I am everywhere
I am everything
I am your world
I am your voice
I speak in your blood
I sing in your tar
I am your lungs
I breathe your suffering
I contract your tears
I am your past
I recollect your misery
I predict your end
I am your friend
I embrace you with sickness
I deliver you from happiness
I am your everything
I am your only love
You. Need. Me
You. Can. Never. Escape. Me
LoveFluttering, floating softly in the air.
Taken to and fro by the breeze.
Locations seen that could no be believed.
Till the wind grabs and shreds.
pass up the opportunity
as violet rain
scorches and scourges
roust thyself up
dress in black and stand tall
your captain nears
they say he passes
like a ghost which haunts
our very walls
as we pray amidst this downpour
in the hope
that we live
to see another bleak sun
that our blades
pierce the flesh
of our most vile enemies
that we don’t fall
to their steel
or worse that our morals slip
onto the captain’s sword
Princess InsomniaShe dresses in blues deeper than the oceans of Neptune,
Dissonant is the face of fear projected on her face by her shadow,
When she speaks her words cry like the last breath of a god on his faded throne,
Her soul is a supermassive black hole and her brilliance cannot escape.
A being of ambient landscapes, she's not afraid of the dark.
Still every night is her nightmare, seen by the audience of a million sleepers
in her moonlight-gilded prison where she sleeps in the void without a head and encases her heart in a fragile urn.
By day, she wears a mask of light to protect her from her other self,
At dusk, she watches the black rose garden grow in her budding heart,
At twilight, she dances with mirrors under the rising blue moon of hope,
At night, she cries a million heavenly stars which cast moonlight upon all the land.
But one day, her freedom will howl the black winds of fate and shatter the Earth...
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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