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The Auctioneer'Good evening gents and ladies
screaming hungry babies
On the table for the bidding tonight
A fine second hand soul!'
'All parts have been restored
To almost all its former glory
But these cracks all bare a story
You must buy to hear it told'
'Start this auction shall we?
A reserve price of one life
Do I hear one life in exchange
For this fine second hand soul?'
'One life!' says the paddle
In the raised hand of a devil
Sitting placidly suspended
In the middle second row
'Do I hear two lives?
Two lives for the taking
Of this restored soul once a breaking
Two lives in exchange for this fine second hand soul?'
'Two lives!' granted the pale bright man
With a weak weathered outstretched hand
Two lives bid in exchange
Though the fine piece isn't whole
'Do I hear three lives?
Three lives surely a fair price
To offer for this fine piece proffered
This piece on the table surely for three lives will be sold?'
Chiaroscuro ReverieEmerge like a penumbra
Illuminated, only the contour of your cheek
an evanescent air of ethereal aura
swiftly alights like a bird first to take wing,
a vision of ambrosial mortality.
were I to search for you
after a dalliance with your glance, chatoyant.
I wouldn't find a scintilla,
Not a breath, merely a whisp of memory
a picture of emeralds and melody
a diaphanous web imagined you to be
Dulcet crimson moistened lips
The heart of every hardened mans' chorus
a reverie or lyrical elixir
To smooth the calloused , the jagged,
the jaded core.
The painterly brush of deity must be, must have
erstwhile spied a sunset
and for his own mantel created this felicitous gossamer spirit,
a holy pastiche to grace his vision evermore.
Were a harbinger to imbue
with promise of your visage
Once more to impart that lilt to now a quavering stutter
In the depths of the dark
a mellifluous cure
To my persistent inure
On my knees to the silent gods I'd mutt
Bundled like a gift
Last burden I, the weight of my vessel
Bares down on the backs of my loved ones
They will carry me up the mountain
And ask nothing in return
As I've carried my own beloved before them
They will thank the birds for who I was
And return to them the flesh I once believed I owned
The messengers crowd eagerly
A knife to expose what was life
Broken bones to end my tale
Bloodied stones, crimson painted payment of alms
Pieces of the vase stripped to strengthen their wing
For the journey skyward of my being
Pound to dust what was once dust again
The breeze will carry me up, nurture the grain
Sun annointed to feed
My next vessel
Now gone, the birds ask for rain.
Abandoned ChapelThe parish waits now,
the loneliness of corners
crawling outward on walls--
chipped away by the wind,
and held together
by silk spindles;
cobwebs align them like the membranes of memories,
the cut of a jewel in an broken window
against the sun
where beads of rain
gather in a mesh of strands
a new Mosaic
against the backdrop of a cemetery;
My eyes seek out the sermon
in close proximity,
paint no distance
between headstone and cloud;
elegies topple each other
in their climb to heaven
as light trickles
over the shade,
breathes a new glow over snuffed candles.
I feel the weight in these empty rows,
how a breath couldn't cease to be breath
in the midst of prayer.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More