it all started that spring day when
I grabbed you and spun you around
(in the air)
and you didn't yell for me to put you down
or claw me.
maybe the connection formed the first time
I kissed your chin, wasting away
the third saturday afternoon of august
or maybe the first time
we fell asleep on the phone together,
comforted by each other's breathing.
maybe it was that time
right after christmas
eight months before we met
that I passed you and smiled.
and now you leave me, just as I saw
you that first day, fading into view from a
winter snowscape--spotless.
only now you're fading out, and for all
my attempts to mark you over
In my dreams--
he's been holding his breath for perhaps too long,
and the last strand of life clings, weak and tremulous
to an old photograph in a long-forgotten cellar--
of a girl, faded but still brown-eyed, standing
soaked on a porch in the pouring rain. He
slips--down, down to a darker deep
where warm hands reach out to hold him, and
comforted, he sleeps. In his dreams
it's still raining. Drops roll down in ragged
lines, stuttering against a new umbrella in
a calming thrum. The black hearse passes by
as lightning flashes--and the sun shines while
they stand,
No matter how hard I try, I can't fight away that smell of spilled beer and stale cigarettes, the sound of that crowded gathering. Now the place is too far gone to have any real effect on me--countries, decades away. Its rooms are empty, windows boarded, the rusty miasma of its life, its vibrance given over to disrepair and encroaching dust.
The brown leather of the booth must be cracked, hard by now in the few shafts of light which manage to scrape through the boards, the stained glass that sent shivering slivers of blue light across our faces long broken, now glittering morosely on the floor. By now the wood of the tabletop must be
The sun blossoms over the rooftops of the other high rises, and for an eternal moment, the buildings across from mine are ablaze, their roofs barely registering in the flames licking across the sky. Then: she.
Her hair is blonde; maybe it's red - brown? I know not. I care not. She is an angel, a seraph, her hair a blinding blaze in the morning light, bright against the grey and frosty tones of the dark city streets. I no longer feel the warmth of the tea in my hands, the cold of the wrought iron against my elbows, all I feel is an elation that is the very essence of her. She crosses the street, shoving her hands into her parka against
You hold on then to metered verse,
while I hold on to rhyme;
and maybe, if the words are right
we'll reconcile in time--
but words are rarely ever right
and as I've sometimes swore,
you have your paltry, metered verse
and I, with rhyme, no more.
An ordered sense, a piebald score
echoes then, black and white,
while little can be made with
our own artificial lights
which all of yours and all of mine
can barely act to feign,
both singularly--it must be!--
or we must go insane!
I, without your ordered verse,
and you, without my rhyme
can barely hope to sway a thread
though we take all of time, so--
will you lose your mind with
Nothing wells and swirls
creating electric patterns in my eyes
and flinging itself through--the lids force shut
of their own accord, barring in the
emotions that threaten to tear
out.
Hair falls over eyes, further
enclosing the
encroaching void, holding it within
the confines of an all-too-small form.
Attempts to breach the barrier only
lead to a greater resolve,
a desperate attempt to find solace
in a soul.
Words coalesce; are held frenzied
hostage against a moment's revelation--
against the moment of discovery
by an outside
force, another weakness
made apparent by a second's lost
love.
Perhaps there is a way--
but I wo
I wake to a spectral darkness. The comforting thrum of rain still echoes, fading quickly into obscurity. My eyes are open, I think--it's hard to tell. The world is dark; there is no light.
There never was any light, was there?
And then--a glint of gold an immeasurable distance away. It flares and flickers, growing in seconds to an inferno mere inches from my face. The golden flames give off no heat, no illumination. The fire is the only thing I see, the only thing that is real.
In an instant, he stands over my shoulder. I turn to look at him, only then realizing that I can't move. The feeling is not frightening, not unnatural; it i
what can I do for you?
you are old; you stand perilously
on weak, trembling legs.
You do not hear my sorrowed call--
your grey-bearded smile is deaf,
your ears hear only memories.
what can I do to allay
the coming death I see in your eyes?
they are so dark, so beautiful--
so pitiful. They hold hope,
along with the haunted peace
of ancient memory--
why do you look to me with such trust?
I cannot heal your wounds,
take away your pains--
I am not your savior, though
I long to ease your way--
not your healer;
I cannot heal even my own heart.
four musicians stand
on a street corner, their
lips pressed against a wall
of sound.
notes float out over
pedestrian and car alike,
clarion, indelible. a couple
joins hands and starts to dance,
whirling beside the quartet. another
finds holding hands, listening
with gazes locked
is enough.
humanity passes by, the
oasis of music wafting over
the cars, over those perpetual
dwellers of the sidewalks. humanity
passes through the oasis.
many hear the notes.
many smile.
four magicians stand
on a street corner, pouring
out their souls
into this--
swing, this
syncopation, this...
jazz.
They say that love is a rose
but I see it as it is: dying, wilted,
not a glittering beauty held
highly by so many, but a curse,
And I see you as you are: old, wilted,
with nothing left to give, but still
thought highly of by so many, a curse
rooted deep in my heart.
With nothing left to hold me you still
try to grasp like an incessant vine
at a deep part of my soul--rooting
yourself, a thieving, choking weed
trying incessantly to grasp what love is;
not a glittering beauty held inside--
a theiving weed, choking all life from the heart,
but you still insist that love is a rose.
The scent of sunlight
reminds me of you,
just lying outside with a
yellowjacket landing on
my hand--
--your nose and
I turn to your
gasp; the wasp is
long gone, but our lips are
still close, your
laughing blue eyes
locked with--lost in
mine--
--clothes, memories
sifting into the pack,
into my heart;
the month almost over,
Summer almost dead.
Home calls as I
stand--
--outside on
the spring
grass, exchaging
one last embrace
for God knows how long,
but you go peacefully,
as your gaze gently
presses against my tears
for a fleeting
moment--
--before fleeing, flying
on the breeze
into the laughing blue
sky
and I wa
I Once Believed in Santa Claus by Eloen, literature
Literature
I Once Believed in Santa Claus
I once believed in Santa Claus
His sleigh bells ringing in the air
His reindeer leaping without care,
A gripping flight through the winter night
Bringing light and toys to share.
I once saw dragons in the woods
Though no one ever thought I could,
Flying high in the blue night sky
And flinging crashing, screeching cries
And beckoning with fiery eyes
For me to join...and once I would.
I once would fly to dazzling heights
Held fast by wings crafted of light
Where earth and moon withdrew from sight
Where dragons hurled with wings unfurled
Through distant and exotic worlds
A flight through darkest nights.
I once knew how and when
"Do you feel it?" he whispers to me as we pass in the hallway, his eyes glittering oddly in the fluorescent light. Of course I feel it; I can't remember when I didn't feel it, this odd weight on my shoulders, this feeling of something sinister lurking just behind my back. "It's coming..." he trails off as the warning bell rings, a jarring klaxon breaking through our conversation.
"Change," I say as we turn from each other, heading to our respective classes. I sit in my usual desk in English, first in the room. The plastic seems hard against my back, harder than usual. Sharp. Warmth. I feel that, too, though I know the seat is alm
The smell of another morning
of broken sobriety greets me
as I admire the grey-tinted
world of dawn, the sun only
but peeking over the horizon,
her pink and purple robes
just beginning to unfurl.
I see him, sitting where
he's sat on countless mornings,
peaceful but for the
occasional silent tears he
sheds, carving tiny streams
in the dirt of his craggy face, a
study of line and shadow.
I watch him silently shedding
his sadness, the permeating smell
of a generic alcohol somehow
fitting. Everything somehow fits into
place, and I cry, too. I
cry because I know what's wrong,
but can't change it. I cry for
those who deserve
The grandfather felt the presence behind him before he heard the boy's bare feet against the hard-packed trail. He knew the bronze, smooth face without turning to look, instead letting his gaze wander across the green and yellow fields that surrounded his village, his home for all of his long life.
The boy likewise knew the old man--knew the wrinkled lines that creased his weather-beaten face, knew the way his eyes lit as if on fire when he laughed, knew the stoop of his shoulders brought upon by long life and hard work. The boy came to a halt next to the man, likewise staring out across the expanse of early morning farmland.
As
It now seems that when it was happening it should have appeared too good to be true. I guess it was. But you held my stars--my destiny!--in your eyes. Now here they lay, scattered like a thousand glistening diamonds on the floor, the last glimmers of hope fading from their crystal faces. You'll understand if I seem a bit faded, I hope, having lost my stars, what I had thought was my destiny.
And I hope you'll understand if I appear blind for a little while. You see, your smile held my sunshine, it brought light to my darkness. It now seems that I may have been in darkness all along, that I only fabricated this light I thought you
four musicians stand
on a street corner, their
lips pressed against a wall
of sound.
notes float out over
pedestrian and car alike,
clarion, indelible. a couple
joins hands and starts to dance,
whirling beside the quartet. another
finds holding hands, listening
with gazes locked
is enough.
humanity passes by, the
oasis of music wafting over
the cars, over those perpetual
dwellers of the sidewalks. humanity
passes through the oasis.
many hear the notes.
many smile.
four magicians stand
on a street corner, pouring
out their souls
into this--
swing, this
syncopation, this...
jazz.
what can I do for you?
you are old; you stand perilously
on weak, trembling legs.
You do not hear my sorrowed call--
your grey-bearded smile is deaf,
your ears hear only memories.
what can I do to allay
the coming death I see in your eyes?
they are so dark, so beautiful--
so pitiful. They hold hope,
along with the haunted peace
of ancient memory--
why do you look to me with such trust?
I cannot heal your wounds,
take away your pains--
I am not your savior, though
I long to ease your way--
not your healer;
I cannot heal even my own heart.
Swiftly swirling soft daisies
Floating along a fast river
Filled with flashing scales
Of fish showing off stunts
Like birds flipping in the air
Eating the water bugs
That float above them
Like the soft daisies
Hanging over the bank
Current Residence: A rundown house in the middle of the most beautiful starscape you'll never see... Wallpaper of choice: an old, yellowed one, with faded pink crysanthemums Skin of choice: hers Favourite cartoon character: Spike Personal Quote: the scent of sunlight reminds me of you--
When he has nowhere left to turn, he tumbles back--back into lands he knows by rote: rhyme, meter, form. He creates about him a world in which everything fits because everything was crafted specifically to fit. The universe is but fragile spinnerets of glass, tinted and formed with the love of a life-long endeavor. He walks the corridors of this land with care--but he knows the ground he treads intimately. It is a part of his soul.
And still he looks out of his fragile world and feels ruin approaching. So he moves sideways, out of time and around it, entering a world of numbers--of grace, and of preternatural beauty. He moves more assu
Time passes.
Germination. Growth. Nights he dreams that he can put out roots, shoots of green growth, and pick this as his place, unique in all the world. He dreams that he becomes a part of the World, that deep down he can feel her heart, that in the susurrus of his leaves lives the harmonic wind. In his dreams his family comes to roost in him, his father a vigilant owl, a magpie his mother, and his siblings a hive of bees nestled inside of his trunk.
He dreams that he has found a place, where none was his to have.
He dreams.
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