|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
71. ObsessionAbout nymphs, I know without fails
You have probably heard countless tales
Already, so why should you hear mine?
What could I possibly refine?
Now I'm not Ovid, I admit
(Would be sev'ral cent'ries late for it)
But stay and listen to my story
I promise you won't be sorry.
Let me tell you not about love
Surely you know enoug tales thereof
So how about obsession instead
And a night painted crimson red?
Once upon a time it began
When during a full moon night a man
Could not rest in Morpheus's arms
He wandered off under sev'ral charms.
Not awake he followed the trail
Laid to his feet by Selene, the pale.
Into the mountains she guided him
Where the world was so rough and grim.
The feet left bloody stains behind
Tracks which an Oread did then find.
She follwed them to the mountain's top
Where finally the man did stop.
The mortal man she did pity
So alone and far from his city
Caught in this obsession for the moon
Unaware his feet turned maroon.
The nymph thought and worried her brain
GoJust run don't look back, you already did that enough times to give yourself whiplash. Drop everything and just start running, it's your turn to finally start getting what you want. So don't just sit there and do fuckall like you always do, do something else for fucks sake. No matter how much it hurts don't stop, it'll get better; it always does it just takes time. So get the fuck up and go.
a network of lines that intersectOne May morning
I was stumbled upon by my soul,
my body splayed in a curl of light like the petal of an iris.
10,347 or probably less poems
beat in livid hives beneath my skin; my skin that was fishing
for a cleaner rug to teach it the art of braille.
I composed ridges as I woke, 10,009 braille
death threats to the drug of morning;
to the red in my tired eyes, injected as if by the fishing
hook my soul
uses to catch the shimmering poems
skittering like koi-fish in the iris
of the universe (blue/green like earth). My iris
is scored by the prints of 5 years ago: invisible braille
smudges left by my soul as she writes scripture in the form of poems.
is the scroll from which that soul
reads, one leg dangling over the precipice of my pupil, fishing
as I do, now, with my hands in the sink. I am fishing
for the exact shade of my father’s favorite red iris
in the scalding tap water and blisters. I feel my soul
touch herself in that moment, run her tongue over the braille
LIRIA CRUSADERSIn this world, it is not like your own
For in this land sat a king on a thrown.
Though this man had a kind face,
Behind the castle walls, peonage took place.
The king thought himself a powerful man
And enslaved the entire Zotairak Clan.
The Zotairaks’ leader, whom once stood tall,
Now sat under the king as his personal thrall.
This way of life lasted for many centuries,
Building up some rather terrible memories.
Finally one day the Zotairak leader had enough.
He rose up tall and yanked off his cuff.
With his mighty voice, he roared to his clan,
“Come brothers, come sisters, and come forth woman and man!
Together we will fight back for our land!
We will be free of this pain, free from this misery!
We will break from this evil penitentiary!”
So the battle began and soon turned into war
Ending only when neither clan could fight anymore.
Though, this war was far from over. This they all knew.
The Zotairak retreated across the sea to Feiaras to plan their next move.
The Found, Dead OnesThere once laid a village in ancient caves,
ravaged by time and touched by sword,
yet the First Ones stayed in their homes,
For an eternity, they slumbered,
their homes carved out of cold stone.
Their forms, once stout, are now slender,
their skins grey and the air held dust.
Ravaged by time and touched by sword,
nothing of value remained in the rooms
and deciphered texts told very little
save for references of siege and disease.
What once filled these caverns were
works that inspired wonder and
displayed their might, but now
they lay crumbled and forgotten.
No one knew who ended the First ones
And the elderly creatures held no answer
nor would they care about
the First Ones’ plight.
DragonMy eyes are flame; my breath is flame;
Everybody knows my name.
If you seek fame then come to me:
I'll make sure you die famously.
I ate their sheep; I'll eat you too.
Believe me, I'm not scared of you.
Your pretty lance is just a thorn.
Come test it on my blackened horn.
Your sword is naught more than my claw.
I'll crush it with my iron jaw.
And, should you make it past that point,
I'll rip each fragile limb from joint.
To round it out, I'll burn the rest.
How's that for an end to your quest?
My girth is greater than your house.
To me, you're just a little mouse.
Let's make it clear: You stand no chance.
To me, you're just a pesky ant.
So bring it on, you hero, you!
I ate their sheep; I'll eat you too.
Die Tryingwhat the hell did i do, to never ever try to do better?
When have my exceptions always surpassed my expectations.
My worried woe's hold me back,
Try, try again strapping boy you,
For the World will rely upon your wisdom and misguided fortunes.
And forever be the day you shall never forgive,
the day you forgot to Remember. Just to try, and try to do better.
Because the thought of One-thousand tomorrows will never meet the time,
those worried, forgotten yesterday's promised.
Robert J. Price Jr.
The Haunted KnightI have a tale I'd like to tell,
A story dark,
With bloody end and bitter smell.
A story, in truth all about me,
My guilt laid bare for all to see.
After wars and battles, and so much blood,
I laid my armour in the mud.
I threw my sword to the lake,
And holy vows I chose to take.
A silent life inside a cell,
With holy books to make me well,
No steel skin to save my bone,
But hooded robes and a life alone.
Rest my soul to avoid temptation.
My heart was lost,
In a place so dark,
So deep, a place so vast.
I was a soul alone,
In some place unknown,
Devoid of love and as cold as stone.
My first battle had been a hard won thing,
And ever after, guilt did sting.
Men who died screaming upon my blade,
Men I crushed underfoot in mud now laid.
Men now dead, by my hand,
Men who lay, while I now stand.
One freezing winters, silent night,
I stood alone by candlelight,
My troubled thoughts whispered by,
Devilish tongues who heard me cry,
Who smelt fresh blood upon this so
Holiday Tableau IITwilight flits across
the day, warning way-
ward children it is
time to scurry home.
The sun dips, modest,
as the stars twirl in
the moon's arrival.
Chiminys softly sigh
as families gather
by the fireside,
where flames dance across
lights and in bright eyes.
There is a silence
in the sugary-
cinnamon air that
calms long-labored nerves
and lifts worlds off the
tops of shoulders; Homes
exude warmth, other-
This, the holiday
and yet untarnished.
Pour another glass
of eggnog and sing
another song of
yule tide cheer - I wont
It appears you don't have PDF support in this web browser. Download PDF
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
Keep in Touch!
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