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Back-Story of a CarcassA man on the ice in the snow on the worms
Empty handed with empty pockets, and looking for a reason to get up.
A backstabber with bad aim and scars down his spine;
His naivety betrays him.
The falling flakes tickle the spotlight bestowed upon him
By a rusty light pole who just stood there watching
When another man with shadows in his eyes
And a medical bill on his kitchen counter
Stinking of stale whiskey and in need of a cigarette
Knocked the backstabber down with the blade of a sticky pocketknife
Back-story of this carcass:
A spelling trophy in 3rd grade and a broken heart in 10th
No children to miss him, and no wife to leave him
A macaroni picture on his fridge;
From Tommy next door
To Mister Nice Guy
Right next to last Halloween's uneaten candy
Maybe it's better this way
His eyes shut with a bitter smile
Speak to Me Speak to me in roars and booms like thunder,
To inspire wild visions in wonder.
Or whisper like the softest breeze in spring
Of a scholar who overthrew the king.
Debate in Fauvist colours, shamelessly bright
And dare to make sunshine in the dead of night.
Shout and scream, hoarse as the Bedlam inmate
On the dagger-sharp edges of cruel fate.
Lie to me in dull dreams like a trickster god,
Tell tales where I can spark like a lightning rod.
Murmur in tones from falsetto to baritone
And make the planets rumble with a song of their own.
Sing to me more skillfully than an opera star,
Like an angel but holier by far.
Laugh like Balder before the arrow struck;
Confident, easy and just out of luck.
But don't stay silent.
ExecutionerI saw them in the halls
I heard them murmuring blaspheme
And they ignored me
They’re only society’s children
Each of them were drenched in depravity
And they were gorged on man’s blood
Their words were obscure
And I killed them all
I ripped off their grey faces
I spat in their eyes
And I defiled their remains
Now I’m covered in their filth
And I sink into their meat
And I’ve become their demon
I’ve become humanity’s nightmare
...while the leaves dance under the suni want to write.
i want to write until my hands bleed and my eyes bleed and my heart bleeds
from too much
that covers the screen in tiny black letters like
carrying broken pieces of candy across the red-and-brown striped carpet of the
and i am stuck.
in this glass-panelled curved room of people on laptops on books on bean bags, on
blue-and-black swivel chairs where it is supposed to be quiet
but i have
singing in my head
and it's the most painful and beautifully ironic thing in the world
that i have essays to write-
The words of the dead and dyingThe words of the dead and dying are prophetic, carrying weight far beyond the promises or threats of the living. For a living girl, to say that she would wait forever for her lover to return was a simple thing. A mere promise, even if she meant it with all her heart. The priest sighed, then, as he entered the house of the dying girl. Some fever had struck her, along with a pain in her stomach that would not fade—it could be no babe, unless she had been as blessed as the Virgin Mary, and she had carried this pain for nearly a year now—and now she was ready to leave this world behind.
He had been tending to her for most of the previous year, but he had been a frequent visitor for some time before. Her dearest love had left her behind for a war in France across the sea almost ten years before, and though he had written her letters, the girl could not read. The priest could, though in this case he wished he could not. But it was his God
Valley of BlackOver the hill, ‘neath the old oak tree
Drowns a forgotten fable in a tar black sea
Over the hill lies a valley of black
Where many now venture, but few once came back
A clatter of swords and a losing life
Wails of misery, grief, and strife
Some will fall and some will rise
Some will go back to their daily lives
Dawn a new day or fall a new night
Heroes will be felled doing what’s right
A young boy honored, no more than sixteen
Laid to to rest in a patch of peaceful green
A young girl gunned down as she ran with supplies
There is only black and white in war’s eyes
Statues are built, memorials wrought
Remember the day that these heroes fought
But time will pass and bring with it
The kiss of memory’s losing lips
Over the hill, ‘neath the old oak tree
Horror battles serenity
Innovation pursues, there are rights to be bought
‘Neath the tree is planted a parking lot
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More