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Moonlight Ride of the HorsemanDarkness hovers as a thick mist around,
Seeping into soft skin, penetrating light of Diana.
Upon the great mount, the White Horseman,
Mystic of ages, consul of secrets.
Ride upon the whispers of Silent Night,
In thy hand the grasp of souls.
And flowing mane of thy servant
Playing in tiptoe games with Wind.
Drink only of the raw dew does oneself,
Graceful droplets of the clean tree
In action of purity and sanctity.
To be clean of the ground thy tread,
Noiseless banter upon soft mud.
The ride is smooth as quicksilver,
Unattached to Their lonesome world
And yet still free from natures refuge.
Light prevails, upon darkness
That suffocates the wandering tract.
And fleeting glimpse of the ride,
Of one such as thee, blinds sight
A feeling of euphoric disillusion.
A pained uncertainty of sanity,
As illusion is the isle of Circe.
And still nameless stranger creeps.
Great black slender crept,
In silence upon splash of blood red.
Slowly to sink the
RustThe progression of the ambience upon the shadowy silhouettes,
A deep cut in natures grimace, no longer the melancholic silence.
Fresh dew, a varnish on the hovel, the foundry of man's emptiness,
His footprints bare and old, and knife is carcass to the rust.
But the noise is still existent, the ringing and chimes of
The scratch of the axe upon the flesh.
No longer screams, a melody of chimes and bells.
So sweet the music.
FleshThough flesh has left the earth,
Opiate, so sweet has not.
But stays rather,
An open wound.
Frequent guest of ours,
So close to thy heart.
Phthisis should be leaving,
Soon, upon my own departure.
Blinding to the senses of me,
Taste only knows sawdust,
Vision knows no colour,
Touch is an illusion.
And I, left ravage for the wolves.
Upon this empty bed,
Struggling to raise my hand,
Trying to grab your ghost.
Ghost there is not,
A picture frame instead.
Your timeless face,
To beautiful to be fully captured.
Forever expression you hold,
Always that weak smile,
Anticipation- lonesome sign,
The coming of the Reaper.
The Simplicity in DesireMy delirious lust hangs moist,
Once more for the sweet taste of your smile.
But what is gone forever, is forever lost,
And within your tabernacle lie only bones and echoes.
Like a dusty coffin, built to last only the showroom,
You are already beginning to fade.
And still your voice echoes throughout
Silent hallways upon the dry cracked covering.
Persistent as ever,
Never ceasing to shatter the heart.
The war was lost and the soldiers fell like toys
No matter the cries for an end, they all fell.
One by one their spirits risen,
As the Grandfather of the Stream
Will ride once more to lock them into eternity.
My doubts however resurface,
Eternity has never been what it seems.
What was dubbed eternal has always become mortal.
Even in the life of yourself,
You lied with every word from
Your soft lulling voice.
Your lullaby shambled,
Your foundation cracked,
Your picture ignited.
Forever lost, you yourself have ignited,
It was only the picture that kept you bound.
Lament for BeautyOh faint and distant glow so close and far,
How beautiful the paradox is a coercing reminder
Of the simplicity of the dry wood.
And the bark of the trees-old creaks tired,
A monument in the hot ash and embers,
Even they could not fall.
Instead forced to look upon the grave,
One thousand distant dreams shattered,
And lonely wails will cry on yet.
Oh great city home to the nymph,
Bird, and great Pan, charred and fallen
To its great enemy.
It is full of the smoldering reek of fresh,
Warm, thick blood, still wet upon the canvas.
Never meant to be cover't up.
But ash prevails, soot brimming
Into an amphitheater of what remains,
Animals burrow through the black.
Cancer of the scorched earth,
Eyes can barely grace with the fatal glance,
Beauty has withdrawn from this place,
Familiar becomes forgotten.
NightOn black wing'd horses thy approach,
Nightmarish carriage from blackest depths.
Into the heart to strike fear,
Among men, the fear of life, the end of light.
And hellish fiends of Styxian realm,
Minions of Shadow, knights of Pluto come.
To steel thy breathe cold hard trickle,
Like beaded dew, the frost, upon thy neck.
And from thy eyes vision stole,
End of sight, sanities farewell.
when you find yourself
in a crowd of familiar faces,
the struggle for breath
You Will PayI can taste the fear upon you:
The cold sweat in your palms,
The eyes that dart at shadows,
And the lips that are forced into a tightened smile.
You wait beneath the blankets,
Shivering each night as the anxiety rises.
You gasp at the slightest sounds and quiver...
For you are afraid of the curse that comes.
In your mind you see what you have done to me.
You watched as you ripped my tongue
And stole the very voice from my soul!
But even if I am without a body,
Even if I can no longer hold a knife to your throat.
Fear alone is enough for me to silence you,
And I will NEVER allow you to be heard!
MazeLost within myself
Looking for a way out
This cannot end like this
Trapped in my own mind
A maze with no exit
I keep running and running
But I always end up
In the same place where I began
Inner DemonI harbour a monster,
It lingers deep within.
It wants to escape me,
To tear free from my skin.
It gnaws at my insides,
And hopes that I'll give in.
It works hard to tempt me,
To lead me into sin.
It wants me to suffer
To feel its wretched sting.
But I stand true and strong,
I will not let it win.
The nights are the hardest,
In bed I pray and sing
To the Lord God above
To rid me of this thing.
But instead it remains,
My monster still within.
RustThe dwelling rust
swells this hollow garden
and somewhere in the yard
a tire swing goes flat
against the skyline.
It chokes the autumn light
in the silo,
the crush of
mums and ragged berries
It bubbles in the percolator
steeping still life
in the caul
of early morning -
the red-brown crumbs
of breakfast toast and jam
growing ghosts upon
And deep inside
I still hear you waking up
the soft salute
of morning voices
stirring the wind
outside my window.
Croon.And you will have my arms around you
long after the first frost
silences the crickets
that played us to sleep
through our first summer,
and their children
and the children of theirs
will play those same songs
as creases form and deepen
beside our eyes.
And I know this because
of our childish jokes
and because of the words
we are writing.
there’s something about
these kisses hitting their marks
from thousands of miles away
eliciting rouge beneath pale;
I see on your face
the dumbfounded grin
I feel spreading across my own,
our bodies built
scattered by the hand of fate
between two states.
But it is love
who is determined
to complete our picture
and it is love
who shall have her way.
Slaves of the deadSlaves of the dead
to find another land,
but they couldn't stand the desert and the frost.
Some died, some returned.
For those who returned
the masters had prepared a special punishment.
Their memory was wiped off.
They became thieves,
without ever understanding why.
They just felt it was the right thing to do.
How toHow do you help someone when your hands are tied?
How do you watch while they hurt?
How do you stand and smile while they curl up and cry?
How do you listen when they don't want to talk?
How do you accept that you have no control?
How do you accept that you have no power?
How do you make it okay
when sorry isn't good enough?
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
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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