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Posts Tagged ‘Writers’

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A tale once told to children in their sleep,
Unsettling their angel-like repose—
Words whispered by the beasts who’d witness lain
And yearned to tell the tale to those who weep.

Not far, not near, a palace tow’ring high,
Here serving her grand Queen—a dark-eyed maid,
Who’d wished to flee her farming life at home,
Where no-thing would have e’re gone so awry.

She felt her Queen’s great silks, combed locks of hair
That sat beneath a circlet spun of gold.
The maiden wished to have such things herself—
To have about her so regal an air.

At night, lying in sheets blatantly coarse,
She could not sleep for neighing sounds so faint.
On tip-toe she crept out into the hall,
And there—a dark-eyed knight on a great horse.

Down flights of narrow stairs the pair advanced
And landed in a ballroom fully dark,
Save for the gleaming stained glass on the walls,
Whose ghostly light under which nobles danced.

A golden throne loomed empty o’er the scene;
The maiden left the knight and took her place,
And instantly—silks in her hands with jewels,
And on her head, a crown fit for a Queen.

She watched over a night that had no dawn
As merry courtiers danced to and fro.
She reveled as they shouted out her name,
Her past as maid, not Queen, now nearly gone.

But waltzes endless left her in defeat;
The years passed—she, now weary of the throne,
Was wondering if she—somehowperhaps
Could at least temporarily retreat.

So, scheming of her method of return,
She peered more closely at the ballroom dark,
And, eerie in that moment, the glass light
Horrifically through her dear subjects burned.

They were not solid—nay, “They’re merely ghosts!”
The shadows ‘round her dark as deathly sleep.
The knight who’d led her there now caught her eye,
Her eye—exact same as those of his boast.

With every thought each jewel came tumbling down;
All in her head—the silks dissolved to dust.
She was not here, in truth, nor was she Queen;
There was no here—no head to hold the crown.

For she in sleep had taken final breath;
Oblivion had brought to her false bliss,
And Queen Nocturna, in ballroom of night,
Only could have wishes fulfilled by Death.

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She sailed across the sea of silent stones,

Her ghostly face gleaming in spite of gloom.

I shadowed her; perhaps I should have known

That she was taking me to my own tomb.

Before I disappeared she made a call

Across the water, to my wakened self,

Awaiting both her and my future fall,

All-too-aware of the nightmares I’d felt.

Her words cast shadows on her sharpened teeth;

She took me far away from towns of graves

To which she’d steered me in my troubled sleep,

When I was minding as she misbehaved.

In dreams she bestowed me my final breath,

But in a call her voice was dulcet death.

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They say in the north, in a series of hurried whispers

That the blackbird is coming—

“The blackbird is coming,”

Coming with a vengeance to join her vivacious sisters.

Calculating, causing a bout of premature shivers,

The blackbird is coming—

The blackbird is coming,”

Clutched tightly in its two talons: four ferocious winters.

No chronicled cold, no known chill has ever been brisker;

The blackbird is coming—

“The blackbird is coming.”

Gliding through the dusk sky, she could not be any swifter.

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I daresay that I cannot decide

Whether it is the stardust in your eyes

Or pixie dust scattered upon on your hair

From the spells that you cast into the air—

The incantations whispered in a dream

Reflected in a looking glass pristine.

In hazy crystal balls there’s naught to find—

The mystery’s not easily defined;

Overlook constant cycles of the moon,

The stars that will dance into orbit soon,

Flashes of lightning twirling in the skies,

The ever constant pull and flow of tides.

Do not think twice about huddles of crows—

These things are not what do enchant me so.

I’m bewitched far beyond the realm of chance;

Luck possesses far too feeble a stance.

No, this is the work of things unexplained—

Beasts sprung from golden legend, gods untamed.

Magic in age-old form is what it seems:

To be charmed beyond all thinkable means.

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From afar a glorious thing,

Like a city at midnight beckoning;

Your cage disguised as your wings,

Gold and diamonds and pretty rings;

Tinted windows blocking the light,

Tumble down seventeen stories high;

Never see sun, never see sky,

Sickeningly jeweled hand on your thigh;

Black suits in a suffocating sea,

Can’t bite the gold between your teeth;

A façade like an opaque sheath,

You never wonder what’s beneath.

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Dark heavens pierced by a bright skyline,

A thousand twinkling lights,

A million intertwining lives—

It’s all electric, you can feel it.

And he walks past the neon signs,

Dizzyingly slow traffic lines,

Midnight, but everything’s alive—

It’s all hectic, he can feel it.

In a cab, she wonders why

This is only the first time

She’s searched here for the limelight—

It’s all tangible, she can feel it.

For moments they both close their eyes;

The feelings and sounds all seem to collide,

The constant conversation, the chill of the night—

It’s all-encompassing—can you feel it?

 

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He is sun all over—

It streaks his hair and

It browns his skin, almost as dark as

His eyes, which are warmer than it

As it beats down upon your bare back.

 

He is wrong all over—

Righter than the last but

Wronger than the next,

And you can tell because it’s written on his smirk,

And it’s there, between his crystalline summer words.

 

Summer.

 

He’s summer all over—

Shimmering and seaside,

Smelling like salt amongst other things,

And a wave of desire crashes down, begging him to stay,

But he will fade with every falling leaf.

 

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