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Literature Text
There is a conscience growing now..
Begging to expand my brow.
Loose and lucid; of the norm..
Count a year, mid-summer storm.
Beg the heavens not to feel.
Days drag on; syncretic zeal.
Granted this but is it real?
Seems a dry and pointless spiel.
Slow and sure? I cannot tell.
Slow and sure; I musn't dwell.
Found relief in fond forgetting.
Deep inside I am still fretting.
Traumas to my head upsetting.
Revival now, this is the setting.
Begging to expand my brow.
Loose and lucid; of the norm..
Count a year, mid-summer storm.
Beg the heavens not to feel.
Days drag on; syncretic zeal.
Granted this but is it real?
Seems a dry and pointless spiel.
Slow and sure? I cannot tell.
Slow and sure; I musn't dwell.
Found relief in fond forgetting.
Deep inside I am still fretting.
Traumas to my head upsetting.
Revival now, this is the setting.
Literature
Nocte
Hiding from the beast,
From tree to tree,
Running in the dark,
I tell myself such things,
Slow- so it won't find you,
Breath.
These fires have scorched far and wide,
Leaving the scent of my former cinders to linger in my head,
Like some bad bender,
Warped memories encircling grey,
The ground is made of shattered glass,
Broken dreams.
No lilies remain,
To any kingdom I run,
In mirrors of liquid glass,
Surrealist battles are won,
And like fear,
The spider crawled from my mouth.
They are sedating everything,
Brush pixilated,
Focus changing,
Leaving me to run in the dark,
Caught in the eye of the storm,
Hiding in the calm.
Literature
Cherished
She persuades him to lie down and be still for her
Naked in body only,
her eyes peer past the whole to the pieces.
She squeezes his breasts
Sweet, ripe little things
How they ache for her.
Curious hands become gentle fingers
Sliding up his throat
knuckles rasping against stubble
Skating across his forehead smoothing furrows.
Press gently on the delicate skin at the edges of his eyes
Follow down between the eyebrows
The straight line of his nose
Stroking soft lips that part in hungry expectancy.
She stretches his arms above his head, palms up.
Traces with spider legs down his shivering skin
Tickles the hair of his armpits
Nuzzling her
Literature
Shadows
Shadows
The little girl never slept very well. She didn’t like the dark. In her twilight lit, dusty room, she watched the gas lamps outside flicker and fade, casting eerie shadows dancing on her walls, which scared her more. When she did sleep (which was in snatches), she dreamt that the shadows on her wall would come alive and drag her away into their evil world. Her father laughed when she told him, telling her that big girls never had nightmares. Shaking her head weakly, she snuggled deeper into her covers, trying to block the shadows away. For a while, it was working and the girl drifted into light fearless sleep. Then…
A grat
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some very good work.