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Llan the UndyingLlan was ten when the dragon came to live in the great cave near the top of the mountain that lay just to the north of her village.
The dragon made all uneasy for awhile, as the people worried over their livestock and their children; but the months went by and the dragon, though it could be seen exiting the cave every evening and returning each morning, never showed any inclination towards raiding the village for its food. And so the villagers relaxed and returned to their work as usual, and for the most part put the dragon out of their minds except when wishing to impress the occasional traveler.
Llan, however, watched the dragon coming and going from its lair and thought it the most beautiful thing she had ever seen; and she longed to see it close by, for when she saw it from a distance in the half-light it was never more than a dark silhouette against the sky. She had no idea whether it was red, or blue, or black, male or female, young or old. She wondered whether it had a name, whe
AaruFor most human souls, Aaru, the field of reeds, is no longer the final destination. But Aaru is far from abandoned, for the souls of cats still remember, and to them the way is always open. And unlike humans, who only believe (or not) in an afterlife, cats know Aaru is there, and they know it is theirs.
Not all cats choose Aaru - there are a select few who gain the hall of Freyja, and they draw her chariot. But most are content to stay among the reeds, hunting rats and catching fish in the clear waters of the river, and basking in the attentions of Bastet whom they adore. They lounge in her lap or frisk at her feet, and she purrs them to sleep beneath the warm gaze of Ra.
The Sea Knight's PrayerI am come to you, oh lord of waters. I feel you in the very air, the salt mist curling in the breeze, the scent maddening, honing the need until it cuts inside me like a shark's tooth, an almost physical pain.
The sea rises; hot sand dragging at my feet, I run, drawn by the ache of its nearness, like a fishing line caught at the base of the heart. Breath shudders, almost sobbing, as if the soul would break its coil to reach the water unclothed and pure.
Where the sand turns wet and heavy I stop, breathing, waiting; not yet. I walk the edge, the nearness dizzying, mist in the eyes and throat like tears. The sky darkens where it touches the horizon; a blue silk curtain with its edge in the water, drawing it up. The waves surge against the rocks to one side, white bursts of foam flying up like laughter. The whisper-roar of the sea echoes in counterpoint to the rushing of the blood, and I am ready.
The sea is cool, curling about feet, calves, knees, thighs; a slight shock as a wave slaps t
Beauty and Horses
Is it not strange that we seem to consider the horse a beautiful creature in and of itself, and yet any comparison drawn between a person and a horse runs the gamut from mild derision to outright insult? The term "work-horse" is a rather left-handed compliment, conjuring an image of plodding, unremarkable drudgery; and any girl called "horse-faced" would not be blamed for shutting herself in her room and crying her eyes out. Yet the horse has a wonderfully varied form, from the solid strength of a Clydesdale to the fluid grace of a Morgan; from the flashy colors of a paint to the subtle beauty of a dappled grey; and, from a purely anatomical viewpoint, every horse walks upon the very tip of its fingers and toes. Their eyes are deep, the features of their faces admirable; sensitive nose, long expressive ears, the fine bone of the skull just beneath the hide. And, as I've stated, most would not dispute a horse's beauty qua horse. So why is a comparison with a horse so uncomplimentary?
For Diana Wynne JonesUpon the distant unknown shore
Her star has fallen to its rest,
And she will walk forevermore
With they who wove their spells before:
Immortal, wise, and ever blest.
To a GirlTo a Girl Who Won't Draw a Self-Portrait
Do you think yourself so unlovely, you
Who draw and paint the things I only dream?
You have not beauty's current fashion, true -
Knife-honed, bony, gel-padded dolls who scream
Emptiness behind their stretched, false faces -
Yours is the true, enduring loveliness:
Depth of thought, bright humor; and those graces
Clothe face and eye and ev'ry kinky tress.
As lightstruck rain, an Autumn maple leaf,
Clouds at sunset, a daffodil in spring,
Summer-ripened wheat gathered in a sheaf,
Mockingbirds opening their throats to sing;
These things, I think, are not false to compare
In beauty to yourself, a one so rare.
A Legacy of WisdomYou have scribed your words,
wealthy wreaths of wisdom,
on paper never torn or worn.
You have etched your passions
on my brow.
You have left this wallowed world
victorious; eyes resplendent
with the wisdom you wrote and wrought.
Your passions shall echo in my ears
And should I stray into some
sullen storm, or get caught in
the torrents of the monsoon, Ill know
that Lears been there before, and
Ill not swoon.
And if Hades doors open up
before my stranded soul, and scorch
it with the heat of hell, Ill recall that
I am not the first Dantes been down
there as well.
And if on my death-bed I mourn
the life I wasted on wine and stale
chocolate bars, Ill recall Wildes words and
hope that, though long in the gutter, I did
glimpse the stars.
NonexistenceI pray to a God I have never seen,
who lives in a world that has never been,
to save my heart that has never felt,
from eternity's failures, eternity's guilt.
My feet step on grounds no men stepped before,
my lips taste the poison, bitter and sore,
yet it does not kill me,
does that mean,
that I am immortal,
or that I've never been?
I pray to a God that may not exist,
while the iron shackle tears up my wrist,
to tell me the difference of being and not,
to show me the memories that I forgot.
My mind flies to places nobody has reached,
to learn that the stars are nothing but bleached,
spots on the dark, they're not even light,
I think that's 'cause real light brings nothing but fright:
It's bound to discover
all crimes, neatly covered.
I pray to a God because maybe he is,
unlike me and the world,
in them I miss
something to reach.
AnarchyScream the anthem of the anarchist!
What is it? Exactly.
I won't tell you; make it up.
Go away. Blow it up.
Burn it down. Deface the town.
But don't give in,
Never -- no.
That's the song we all love so.
Freedom past extremity.
Far away, in my backyard
I own the world; I am a bard.
I wear a beard and shave my head;
All the normals want me dead.
I won't give up; I ramble rave.
You'll never make me behave.
My brother, loser, freak, meek geek
You know-- the beatnick, hippy, punk--
The rock bands my parents debunk--
We treasure what we cannot have:
No allegiance to any flag.
out of Gardenwhat sea
how it is welling your eyes a wet mess
where urchins of the ocean will spill to howl their elegy
where mermaids will turn widows
once brine has swallowed whole their sailor babes
stewarding the land instead
is why i never set sail with you
but to lay in gardens, oh
a bed sheet rotten by the ultraviolet
and our laps full of stars
what black soil will pervert your knees there
where moonlight will mirror out from your teeth
to run fanatic toward cosmic space
after bathing in the space among us
where walking air pushes every dust
one of sun-dried butterflies
one of beaten rug with broom
one of honey bees minus harvest
one from sands of human crust
when traced is an orb monster, Jupiter
around your left breast, so that nipple
a blood storm just under the skin
and asking where you sowed the marigolds
is only to hear you choke the words time and water
in the same sentence
to hear you say there will be no rain for a week
while an ocean is
Perspectives of a Hallucino...Comfort. The softness of the basement couch. Misery loves company.
Trickling through my fingers. Whispering across my face, her disappearing
lips trace across my cheeks. The smell is sweet, but she is rough against
my throat. Her smell isn't so much intoxicating as it is suffocating, yet
the smoke paralyses my senses and touches my soul. Her street name is
undeserving of her effect on me. Forever, she shall be known to me as
Mary-Jane. I will never know her beauty.
the plasticized quantum theory
une voleur honteux
slip of the tongue
in each saturated pore
spectrum rehearses its symphony
crooked whispers of a flute
a glimpse of blue infinitude
quiets the confines of los alamos
¿quién es él? eso piensa
paralysis in the peristalsis
jewel in the vitreous humor
until it watercolors
the poison of psyche
papillae the plagues
oxidizing ash and ember
a quivering effigy
splinters the moon
the mirrored hand exhales
swept the epileptic ceiling
dissolving tendrils of mahogany
detached from the retina
tranquil, the deception
the film frame fades
captured in the mercury
Snowflakes fall, blood is in the air,
Covering white figure of pride,
Lying forceless on the ground,
Having no strength to fight with the snow,
Nor even with reality,
Which drifts down from the empty sky,
Where the moon cannot be seen,
Where birds cannot be heard,
At which wolves can only howl.
Vampires heartacheI awake in the night;
I can no longer sleep.
I don't see myself in mirrors;
I see somebody else.
I am alone.
I am dead.
The red stripes on white flesh
Keep me somewhat Sane.
I stare at the ceiling;
It is as cold and dead as I am.
The pain burns within;
as my life slowly fades away.
Prophet, Speak to UsProphet, speak to us, the Remnant,
Our hearts lie crushed against the floor;
Steel us for the coming trials
And battles fought many times before.
Prophet, we, the Remnant, hear you,
Though deaf and blind the masses be;
Stand with us, be still and patient,
The day will come when well be free.
Prophet, speak to us, the Remnant,
We see our brothers by your light;
A sight that strengthens us, and binds us
Together for the coming fight.
Prophet, we, the Remnant, hear you,
They cannot conquer us forever;
Know this, and do not despair,
Soon or late, our chains well sever.
HomesickI am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More