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Sentinel of LightShe's not one for words, she prefers to fly
She believes in what she sees with her eyes
Her ego is huge, but so is her heart
Doubt not that she's prepared to do her part
And if you happen to do her wrong
You'll have unleashed a lion great and strong
She cares not if you disagree
So long as she is free to say what she thinks
Companionship with her would be wise
For she is the Sentinel of Light
And she'll never leave your side
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.
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.
Freedom is not a dream and all the grass is green,
There is no injustice nor loneliness nor lack of life's purpose,
Nature can talk to citizens who'll listen.
Colors take shape in magnificent ways,
Monarchs openly lust for peace,
Villains' words cannot be heard,
Love is the only weapon you'll ever need
You will always find your joyous conscience
The Maiden of the Secret GardenJust below the surface of the world, a different kind of light shines
Emanating from a Maiden whose beauty is in servitude
To those who find it not on their own.
It's not quite love, but not quite lust.
Not quite heartless, questionably just.
Here below the surface, where darkened roses grow
A lucid luster in the moonlit Secret Garden.
With candy in her eyes, the Maiden never cries
But her naked heart softly glows with longing...
[Bad] SeedSwimming in the waters of life, some might encounter too high a tide,
Watering a [bad] seed in one's heart.
And soon a [shell] grows around it to protect them from it,
But it [grows] thorns as well, adapting to it's [environment],
For the heart's [defenses] are not easily broken.
In this case, one must [look] through the shell into the heart,
And [decide] it's true state of being.
DiscordThe bringers of light take their stand in the dark
While the light turns grey
In the wake of Discord
The sky turns inside out
The shadows shine bright and become a myriad presence
By the hands of Discord
Light fades into dust
Animals dance madly
Such is the reign of Discord
Will is now but a dream that died in vain
Hope is now is a light given off by fiends
Made so by Discord
Euphoria becomes confused
Jailers are now felons
Madness fills the wishing well
To the delight of Discord
Sleep becomes a narcotic
The heart transfigures into a door to a ruinous void
Designed by Discord
And if you so happen
To have friends in your life
Turn to him with them and face him with all your might
For all is not lost
The Crystal EmpireI: The Search for Memory
A place forgotten by time
is found after a millennium.
It is known as the Crystal Empire.
In this place most real a bird of peace could sing and reach the farthest star;
and while a bright epoch is in it's future, it's history is unclear.
It's memory is all but lost.
it's security threatened by forces seldom remembered.
Only a remembering could bring it solace,
but where the memory lies no one knows.
To behold it's magisterial grace in it's day could teach the world,
but what once was grace is now uncertainty
as the citizens search for what they have lost.
II: The Shadow from the North
Darkness in it's purest form
as a monster with a heart of stone.
From the north it approaches,
precariously hanging off the blackened winds cast by his every step and breath.
He waits beyond the empires gates unable yet to enter,
so he only stands near and inflicts his menacing presence upon the land,
his standing alone fading its luster into dark shadows
BrotherhoodWe were the only ones who saw it when it happened.
We knew not what we saw, but we sought to understand it for it had captivated us so.
We walked a path unknown, but as if we knew where to go, in search of the answer to this mystique.
We created beautiful images, beautiful words, beautiful sounds, and beautiful dreams not unlike the ones we saw.
And it was beautiful, everything was beautiful, compelling us to walk further.
On this frontier we joined our hands in brotherhood, dedicating ourselves to eternal friendship.
As we walked those who dared to hate did not exist and those who dared to exist did not hate.
But we were the only ones there when it happened,
and so we alone can walk this path. For now...
as we become ghostsThe air is smooth and thin,
running over my shoulders like buttermilk,
curling wax fingers
and smoke escaping my oak tree bones,
I don't know where I'll end up yet but
I know I'm close,
and I know I'm close because I'm still breathing,
inhaling that charred floral scent
where dahlias are breeding in the curves of my collarbone
and lilacs are blooming between each vertebrae,
intertwining with every rib, climbing them like strands of DNA,
oh you know I wouldn't mind if you used my ribs for a ladder,
go ahead and use me up like some sort of construction worker,
for my body is yours to take, my heart to break,
but I should let you know now that this love is a disease,
it will leave you in ruins with teeth like Aztec tombs rotting inside your mouth,
and it will leave your hands forming empty circles in the sky where the stars should be,
but all of this is okay because when we're together I can see the moon in your eyes
and the sun in your lips,
when they dare form a smile, your kiss
Ottumwa ShamanIn Iowa, weeping willows dream of
Tigers, born in pagan fog, their
Coat of stripes singing shaman
Songs; shrill symphonies of grief.
Heaven tilts, crashes, and we race
The dirt to get away. We drink the
Earth with bullets of air and grow
Dizzy, light-headed from breathing
Some far off flame. Perhaps a poet
Who braved the fog of Ottumwa, and
Caught fire. Every cowboy has his
Six chances before high noon, before
The fog forms wispy jackals to take
Them home again. Every son inherits
An empty gun, six voids to fill with
Answers, skimmed and guessed from the
Covers of books their fathers used
To read. There is no other way.
In sleeping, I have been to Iowa,
And I learned where wiccans go
To make their bed. I do not know now
If I had dreamed the weeping willow,
Or if it had bent low to dream of me.
In Iowa, there is no such truth, only
Depth, and the shaman's song of grief.
crystallophonethere is a punchcard sin
like a queen of spades smoldering in an alley.
you hear how the gears churn,
singing faster than we did before
back when black magic dropped like a
pair of socks from the sky with supplies
taped to a note that said
(oh, look at you now)
such a beautiful brain:
runs on gasoline?
have a gallon
or we can call it a balloon,
and a new pair of glasses
for your tapered eyes
(you peel the bark back on the logs,
but you're not sure what you see),
and life says,
either nail jello to a tree,
or keep your
icicles hanging from the eaves,
caterpillars frolicking in the ashes,
your 'Sam, I still don't have your number,'
and your totaled passion:
someone to hang inside out with,
string you up like a steak with.
what the hunger
is trying to tell me
my brain churns like butter,
my insides aflare, my chakras combusting,
JayAcorn wedged between bone feet,
In awkward rhythm of white-tipped
Blue tail, there, he precisely
Brings his point of beak, and again,
Again, piercing down; now,
Meat the color of old mustard shows,
And the big head tilts, the crest
Lays flat, the slick throat shuttles.
His bright eyes dart quickly about.
If he had hands he'd rub his belly.
MeanderingHardly a mountain, though on lowering days its head sits wreathed
By the mists of a passing front, aged and befogged as bygone elders
Doddering about before there were names for the malaise
That hazed their thinking
And from this modest crown there slouched and sloped
A long shoulder, meandering down to meadows below
Pausing now and again to coddle a pleasant hollow
Casting a sloping pitch enough to rush a torrent
After a sudden shower
Its glint and glimmer burble among the stones
To join a rill and plash and swirl and putter about a root
It's there I'm apt to wander
Not much of a path, hard passed and thorny
As twisted and narrow as the thoughts of bigoted men
Treading there finds stern resistance and stones to turn the foot
The clatter and crunch of brittle leaf acorns pop and skitter
A plenteous crop, beyond the appetite of wild things at forage
Leathery husks abound, pignut hickory the ebon stains of walnut
On taking pause the quiet lay, a
a second skeletoni. introduction
i was born 4425 miles away from here.
my heart still lingers there.
i don't want to have it back.
i go through the motions,
don't ask me for emotions.
i once thought i could be happy,
my mistake can be forgiven;
i was so much younger.
now i know better
than to expect anything.
because the only time you can lose,
is when you love something.
that's why i love myself.
on velvet roads,
I impale a belated dawn
with my incisors and
shiver with perfect leaves-
I have no qualms
with the dark hills
and stagger into
a bed of scorched fly husks:
the thrum of the ground
with the rapids in
my clairvoyant ears.
Come Home: A PantoumYou'll always come back to me
when the lights in the far hills
are done searching. For, new beds
entice adventurers. Too,
when the lights in the far hills
come home, the homespun dream they
entice adventurers too,
but they can't. (Dream we're neither.
Come home.) The homespun dream they
turn pioneers to homebodies,
but they can't dream we're neither,
our wanderlust fit to turn
pioneers to homebodies.
We've always made love free, so
our wanderlust fit. To
turn ourselves towards our home
we've always made love. Free. So
when the last adventurers
turn themselves toward their homes
in faraway lands, I know,
when the last adventurers
are done searching for new beds
in faraway lands, I know
you'll always come back to me.
A Love Never GainedFebruary stalls in time
Snow is falling in tune with my heart
The way he saw her tore me apart
I must have lost my eyes,
Because I could not be nearly so blind otherwise.
How could I not see something so clearly displayed before me?
I ignored your questions
With implied meanings
I thought that I was stronger,
But I wouldn't take this before a thousand beatings.
Sleepless DreamingI have nothing to fear except fear itself
The fear that's lying in my dreams
Waiting for me to view it's scene.
I have nothing to fear except my dreams
The fear of denial by my idol
As I lay idle along the mile.
I have nothing to fear except falling asleep
Meeting my nightmare face to face
And not being able to run away...
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More