No talent has she
Great and Powerful Trixe
But quite an ego
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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.
Haiku Story - Stripes by Heart - PrologueDeep in green jungle,
A woman gives birth. A boy.
Healthy and alive.
The jungle's cold rains
Consumed the mother's sore lungs...
With her body sore...
Too weak to stand,
She wraps the babe with her cloth
And whispers to him,
"Hush, my little son,
I may not be with you, but...
You will shine and love...
She digs a small hole,
"I'll be with you; I love you..."
Her eyes close again...
The babe laid beside,
Wrapped warmly in a blanket,
Cries throughout the night...
The Savannah's stars
Glistened through the dark, cool night...
Trustful and calm friends...
Rustles through the trees...
A native rides through the vines
Heavy rains pour hard...
The native brushed on... Then,
He heard the baby's soft cries...
The spirits led him...
Blazing on his hooves...
The native is not man. Quite...
A mix of beast-man...
This man's a zebra...
Lean, strong, fast, a kind hybrid
Of zebra and man.
Upon his searching...
He found the cries' source: The boy.
With its cold mother...
Frowns placed on each sprite...
Japanese HunterHear the endless yawn
above abandoned hedges:
the absence of god.
A fine meal a day
paints a very gruesome scene:
blank eyes of a fawn.
Red drops on the ground:
our desires clot, sated.
We bear marks of love.
Little did I know,
the morning light would find a
stranger in my bed.
A storm brings red rain,
the tiger rattles its cage...
The art of hatred.
Warmth spreads in the gut.
Alchemy at its finest:
fire in water.
After the pin strikes,
the seed sheds its cover and
joy grows to full bloom.
The water just flows,
carrying these drowned remains.
And the world goes on.
No green; muck and noise.
This is where the humans live.
I want to go home.
locked within the body's walls;
time for prison break.
Bare trees claw the sky;
dead grass: white flags in the wind.
Here, I will lie down.
Thunder breaks the night -
then something falls with a thump.
Pain: one unit less.
Soothing Earth LullablyPine cones scent, fresh and
Strong, mixed with distant howls are
The night's melody.
HyperventilateI try to hide it,
but the pain always shows through.
I can't run anymore.
I can't run anymore.
All the breathe has left my lungs.
All the breathe has left
my lungs. All I can do is
All I can do is
hyperventilate. I should
try to quit smoking.
Moody haikuThe cold falling rain
Is the persistent thoughts in
My brain, physical
Of what I cannot express.
I don’t know what’s best.
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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