Posts Tagged ‘artsy’

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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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meet me in October,

and we can relive

that moment when

the focus of my life


became trying to get

outside of this fence that

chains me in—

holds me in—

and into your heart,

into your mind,

never regretting a thing.


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You are my color—

Every hue, every tint is part of a masterpiece,

Which only now has been unveiled to me:

A work of swirling shades and dizzying tinges,

Of impeccable details woven together into a vision

That makes the onlooker gasp and the artist beam with pride.

You are the sky after the storm,

When the rain turns into drops of the sun

And the flashes of lighting surrender to your fireworks,

Whose crashes and booms will away the song of thunder.

Your eyes are blind, you cannot see what I behold,

But your words are art; you are my color—

The only splash of paint in a world of charcoal.


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The stars in your eyes—

Ne’er could such a humble sight

Be any more grand.


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           She is running, the heels of her five-inch Barbie pink stilettos click-clacking against the pavement as her legs furiously thrust forward. Her dress is torn; her heavily made-up face has become pale, and her eyes, outlined in a thick contour of black, are as wide as that of a deer caught in the headlights. When she trips on her own feet, she flings off her shoes and continues running barefoot, her neon-colored toenails gleaming like beacons in the darkness. It is a midsummer’s night, but her arms are prickled with goose bumps, and shivers tingle up her spine. She glances over her shoulder and quickens her pace, her breath coming in short but heavy intervals, making it seem like she is gasping for oxygen. The air smells strongly of drink; she can still taste the alcohol that had passed over her tongue a just a short while ago. At this moment, however, she is not overtaken by the effects of drink, for the adrenaline pumping within her seemed to have beaten out all other sensations in her body. Her heartbeat is flying; she looks behind her once more, her eyes searching for something in the night. Perhaps she imagines it, but for one terrifying second, she catches sight of a figure in the shadows—a moving outline blacker than the surrounding gloom. She begins to tremble. Her bottom lip quivers, and a chilling scream escapes her throat. Her eyes dart desperately toward the several unlit mansions along the road, but no help comes. She is alone.

            Except—she’s not.

            Her body tenses as something sharp bounces off the back of her head. It lands behind her, and she stops to see what it was: one of her own hot pink stiletto shoes. A warm trickle of blood oozes down onto her neck, which is suddenly grasped by ice-cold fingers. They wrap around her tightly, sending her into an oblivion darker than the shades of night. The last thing she hears is a raspy, all-too-familiar whisper:

            “I have you now.”

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