Loneliness and pain
Lover killed by a train
Love died in vain
Lying dead in the rain
All hopes and dreams fade
Corpse's marching down a death parade
Sounds of an eerie serenade
Disembodied voices wither in the wind
Carrying a dying melancholic tune .
It began a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.
No wait, I think that’s Star Wars. Meh, maybe I should try being less sarcastic next time. It’s kind of a thing with me, seeing as I don’t really get a lot of visitors. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you about how it all started. How I ended up in this strange situation that you see before you.
Actually, I haven’t even described the scene to you, have I? Well…imagine if you will, a burning ball of nuclear fusion better known to the inhabitants of Earth as the Sun. It’s big, bright and on it’s surface you have yours truly dancing away.
she could peer through the stars,
sifting through the sublime and ephemeral
the shifting of the cosmos
was the heart's blood of her existence;
when the void was filled with the tears of her past,
she would empty it, filling it once more with love
because the moon was not as cold as it seemed
the stars not as far away as portrayed,
life not as overwhelming as it could be.
With the Stars Tonight by LeafpathForNowArt, literature
Literature
With the Stars Tonight
I wanted to be angry,
When he took you away;
I was crying when I asked him why,
He wouldn't let you stay.
But death's not a cruel and spiteful black,
He's a cold, uncaring gray.
I was sitting by your bedside,
Our hearts in perfect sync,
You tried so hard to stay with me;
You tried too hard I think.
Because life's not a strong, determined red,
It's a sickly, fragile pink.
Our friends are getting worried,
But they haven't even seen;
I never cry when they mention you,
Never let it show, I mean.
My pain's not a burning, choking orange,
It's a pale, uncertain green.
We used to watch the stars and sit,
by their softly glowing light;
Now I'm sitt
The Butterflies of Magic by Jakeukalane, literature
Literature
The Butterflies of Magic
These butterflies are summoned by great sorcerers to attack the enemy. They do not attack only with brute force (even if they seem fragile, their energy is huge) but also pretend to be harmless butterflies and use their powerful spells to deceive the enemy. Their magic is not based, as in other types of magic in probabilities, or desires, nor spells, nor in the magical energy inherent in all matter (Arcana naturis).
It is based in the Broken Structures of Existence. There is great secrecy surrounding this magic, because it is said to be powerful enough that by learning the basics of this kind of magic can be performed prodigies.
Existence h
Necromancy (pong2 part6) by Story-of-a-Mind, literature
Literature
Necromancy (pong2 part6)
You filled your graveyard
with deceased dreams,
dead wonders
and stillborn visions.
Your hope is buried
with lingering ghosts.
Even the bone marrow
was sucked out by vultures
and the eyes, oh the eyes –
you shun the very thought.
I dare you don't.
Face the faceless.
Because backbones are still solid structures,
finger bones nifty tools,
and skulls are useful lanterns –
each eye-socket holds a candlestick.
You need no dark magic
to revive dead dreams
only the boldness
to break them apart.
And here we go again. You gifted me with an amulet that you found buried deeply in the underground. I can feel its intricate patterns while I run my fingers over it to stop them from shaking. You have been away in the mines for ages and I continued to live my life without you. Why did you return now?
“I finally found a gift that is worth handing it to you.”, you say.
Stupid man. All I ever wanted was the touch of your hand, no matter what presents it carried.
Your eyes grew so dim in the mines. Instead of searching for veins of gold I wanted your eyes on me, my eyes, my neck, my breasts, my thighs. All I ever wanted was your at
"Describe the smell."
Walls above and grass below. Faces turned toward each other, flowing between, the richness shared.
"It could be anywhere. Originating from anything, and deeply pungent once focused upon."
Silence told the person that didn't exist, the one they created, the ego manifested only by their union, that she wasn't satisfied.
"But what did it smell like?"
"Nothing. Only colors come to mind when I try to recall it." Again, running thoughts only drained to the tumblers, leaving a residue of quickly drying colors. It was this mental surface that he would, if he could, sing praises of, and simultaneously sketch over in order to