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To EuridiceAnd Acheron curved in a smile,
His water still and black.
The cursed man pondered for a while
And gazed behind his back.
But dropped the lonely, beating heart
And echoed in the hall.
Perhaps you vanished at the start,
Not following at all.
My dear, he knows, you broke no rule,
Led on by foreign steps.
Today - 'twas Orpheus the fool,
Tomorrow - someone else.
Untitled2There there, you say,
When you poison yourself,
To set a few sound waves free,
I'm here, you're there;
Words are sat on a shelf:
To reach them, you have to be me.
There there, you say,
When you poison yourself,
To burst with debauchery.
We may not succeed,
But at least, do proceed
To sow lies for both you and me.
There there, you say,
When there's nothing to see,
And the truth is that skin to skin
Is the norm, is a shirt to put on and
I've been blinded, and
I cannot see,
What you've done to the
Lunatics - Short storyNo one complained about the bed.
It was a French Empire Style, Walnut and Mahogany with a muscular glossy brown back and a creak like an echo from a previous life. Twin lampstands, on either side of it, also made of walnut, with their own creaks and scratches and the immobility of aging, threatening to fall apart if moved. Time does this to things: moving so fast itself, it takes away the freedom of moving from others, little by little.
You've had enough.
Now fall apart, disintegrate; I shall move on.
No one had ever complained about the bed. Until one night, I pulled my attention out of the writing, and tried to explain it to her, as is.
The bed itself is fine, I say. You lay in it, motionless, with the realisation of not being able to fall asleep at all, but the thought of moving an inch – it carries a sense of panic. You are left with no choice but to just lay still.
'I don't quite…'
I didn't think she would. Her concentration was floating over something else.
SicknessЯ не видел в метро
Да будет известно вам;
Я не видел - дугой сидящую
У мелькающих ликов
Я не слышал
SpringНить паутины незримой тенью,
Недоплетённая Мартовской ленью,
Ты мелодична, как вдох, как выдох,
Как перекличка грозы весенней.
Кладёт на плечо невесомую голову
East of the Wall - Cantus I 'extract'That last season I recall well, how my body became sensitive to the faintest echoes of turmoil. A lot was perceived directly from the generous ether, though for some it was more rewarding than others. A sense of unrest hung trapped in the air for days, I cannot say how many, for I have lost count. Withal I have approached the conclusion that there is no fertile use in keeping count of what lasts a lifetime.
My lifetime, that is. The Iddin-ninszubur may have been counting for longer.
As the weeping ceased that day, all I took care for was to sprawl out recklessly on the rough Hivecity surface, exposed to rays of non-existent warmth. Perhaps it was the wrong season for such brainless behavior. At least with it came temporary relief from the hellish itch, so I drowned myself in the rough texture of this Smooth-skin-crafted masterpiece. Soothly, they must have though of it before any mind else, albeit they never used it in a thoughtful way. Never. I've killed days watching them thor
By this inanityBy this inanity who was made foolish once,
By venoms much the same moonstruck,
When time to chose creeping on tiptoe comes
The strings inside your heart will be too lose to pluck.
Once in a while
An autumn comes, new to a dreary life
After one of those summers, hot with desires
When ancient Aeolus holds his free and frigid fife
And in an instant blows out the zestful fires.
Step out and watch how all hopes and beliefs
Stand as a rotten forest all around.
Illusion of true love like bleak, deep-frozen leaves
From hollow trees will hurl to the ground.
Then quietly the cunning winter steps
To comfort you with beds of snow.
Behold, lying there breathless, lying low
How cupids come and go.
Sentimentality, I stagger from your beast.
With ways so foul, but necessary still,
You sow depression as the demons feast
Upon endurance and the power of will.
Rise, lover, from the threadbare bed
Reach high and wreck all memories upon the shelf;
When suddenly you'll find yourself
Contained in a sarcophagu
East of the Wall - CoeptusThe mass begins to weep. Zeverai's body, which he carelessly shoves closer to me at least feels warm, tangled in frigid threads of light.
Staggering clumsily, I fall in and out of slumber.
'You wouldn't care to join me, would you? My insides are telling me off'.
My friend's voice trembles like rime-covered leaves in the stubborn wind.
'You wouldn't, would you?'
At times he was as demanding as the drumming water. I could without guilty conscience relate this to his clamorous youth, the youth he was damn lucky to possess.
Zeverai then repeats his question, somewhat reworded to catch my attention. Coming from afar, a roaring sound stumbles upon the tip of my ear. It isn't approaching.
'What should I do about them?'
As always, it is too early for parlances. The thin branch bends under impudent pressure .
'You're good to suit yourself. Or suit them. Whichever you like.'
I immediately seek in the depths of yore and find unyielding difficulty in
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