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The Killing Show.So much skotch, so much smoke
Sips sear lips, I cough, I choke.
Performer takes stage in long strides
Gleaming blades hang at his sides
Unsheaths them in a single, flourished, stroke.
A navy, leather bag of agony
Polished razors, gloves of ebony
The chilling, screaming, music starts,
He bows and grins, gentle lips part…
Beneath them, blood thirsty teeth of ivory.
His hair is powder, feather white.
Skin paler than the moon at night
Darker than his age belies
not yet ten , centuries scream from his eyes.
Grips silver weapons, tiny knuckles tight.
A boy- his prop-whimpers tied to post.
Skye blue eyes cry, he’s seen his ghost.
Flame red hair predicts his fate.
Strains to wrench free, but he’s too late.
He nods acceptance-a youths’ last toast.
The killers’ chorus crescendos
The artist deals a painterly deathblow
He sweeps the flint like a blade,
A roaring, bloody fire made
The music, and victims’ pulse, f
A simple, quiet, breathless sigh escapes you and I'm spellbound
confounded by this conflict- swaying, sweeping from your lips into the atmosphere which may or haven't heard , nor ever exhaled your name.
In mere decades when my swollen cheeks have sunk slowly with the sun, though lost -unlike the sun-it's warming glow.
And when the days like ever changing tides have ebbed the glint of youth from my eyes
You would still sigh a sigh like this sigh and with that sigh , I would sigh and know...
You're all the same: a whisp of clarity when my mind in stormy years have clouded
And the sight of that slight swelling of your chest will still catch my breath.
How a simple, quiet, breathless sigh, so long, so comfortably had shrouded
these bared trusting shoulders you lifted all of the world off of.
I could own, curate a gallery-it's only artwork you,
breathing those breaths you breathe
to steal the breath of those who see you,
though perhaps my visions' wasted, for my
The Cooper.It was still dark there. Where thought meets feeling.
A grey, cold dampness like my cellar where fine wines were once kept, but now only feint wafts of once rich fermentation and oak reveals it had stored such treasure.
Thin silken cobwebs are draped over the barrels, cracked and empty. As though protecting them, waiting silently to capture anyone who dare see the stains within.
He glances at me. That defiant piercing stare of a burglar, uninvited entry into my soul.I avert my gaze, flustered.
He gently sweeps the gossamer net aside, exposing the the vessels barren and vulnerable, where only a year ago they were pregnant, a daring Merlot awaiting it's first breath of air.
'No!' my voice trembles, I step between him and the cask. 'Not yet.'
I retreat into the dark corner where it's stacked and the cold rivets press into the small of my back, crushing into my spine. Later I'll press my fingers into the round bruises shaded Medoc Noir.
He touches my fingers, pulls my hand and steadies my
Who Stole The SongRemember when there was something to fight for
When a voice wasn't just sound
When it meant something.Anything
Remember when we had something to die for
and the cries in your chest couldn't be contained
and you poured out your soul like torrential rain
Hey, When did it dry up?
When did we stop looking to the sky?
Waiting on a cloudburst to break up
That would make the heavens cry
No one knew, what they knew all along
Who would remember who,
Who stole the song?
Remember when there was something to kill for
When life wasn't just living
Remember when we felt some kind of thrill for
A rush in your chest you couldn't contain
Now theres' nothing but numb where there should've been pain
How, when did it dry out?
When did the sound stop falling from the sky?
Nobody said, but they knew it would die out
No one would remember
No one would try
No one would point fingers
When they knew all along
No one would remember who
Who stole the song.
five hour energyi suppose
last week was only an aftershock
of the earthquake you were before.
this place used to vibrate
with metal strings and melodic,
testimonies to life,
emitting coffee-scented moods
and the burn of it too.
i had memorized the
sounds of silence,
i couldn't help but relish it.
no longer had i known
the sounds of folk
and scent of mocha-
you became nothing more
than an echo of the laughter
i so desperately needed to hear again.
then the echoes got louder,
bouncing ferociously off the walls
to be made manifest
i walked into your room
expecting exactly what i found-
an unmade bed,
and an empty beer
(the one that you insisted you needed
just days ago).
i pressed my nose
into the pillow
for incense and cologne and starbucks
to penetrate my mind
and thinking fervently
i already know
what a clean sheet smells like."
how strong an aftershock can be,
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More