The cycle previously mentioned is no more. The dreams have ended, and I have begun to live.
There will be no updates for a VERY long time.
Form poem 1White the marbled torso, limbless, headless, flawless.Form poem 1 by ~Unspeakable-Hastur
The outer son, frantic and incandescent.
'Time is the fire in which we burn', to wit: 'Not even your bones the
end of time will see, since time chose of nothing it to make.'
I grieve for human warmth and the life of the living.
Uppsala... Thing of all Swedes...
In the nameless chamber, I return to the marble.
Not even an echo will survive.
Ecclesiastes 1:8-10Ecclesiastes 1:8-10 (There are No Rules)Ecclesiastes 1:8-10 by ~Unspeakable-Hastur
The tiles windowgossip air-filled sunrays through their precious grime, 'cause you ought to, through, see, see how he's watching you, and he bled for you and me and aren't you a naughty boy? (Not yet.)
Suntime, silly wet, waiting with a half-smile, yes we know it's hot out and genesis is (never) red, but she's sitting right across from me and I hate acrostic mysteries, (never) mention rosaries, we're only in this building 'cause I think that it's a Saturday and Sunday wasn't Holy Day, remember back to Living Day? His floating under-capit' 'T' lacks some of the severity I've come to learn since I was three; STOP. BREATHE. Look around.
Her head is not a full eclipse, a sonnet through her tendonwrists, better than the thumping, nails clicking in the wood, how if we only understood they'd come between our lines and say 'No riverrun for you.' STOP. ENOUGH.
Slick, but not smooth, I'll wonder where she is, tracing fingerworlds in my unpleasant p