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Invisible InkI write the poem of my love
On the soft silk of your skin
In breath and kisses
The only thing fit to adorn your skin.
Lightly with trembling hands
I draw the long history of my desire
Spelled out in ancient symbols
Knowing their universal meaning
Will reveal their truths only
In the heat and press
Of our two bodies.
To AshesThe rich never pay rent in blue blood.
No, it is captured out of tender wrists
That support supple, calloused hands
Ungentled by the necessities of toil.
Laugh, in your fineries:
That the promise of existence
Is made whore-cheapened and
By your cognac-soaked dreams
Terrified of us, terrified of being one of us
You hide behind your walls of policy and politics
Drivel enough to keep us drowning.
Boxed in by boxcars and boxers
Angry cigars and rough eyes
With butter soft hands.
Blend the dreams of the masses
Seamlessly into their condemnation.
Sell the whole the parts of its sum
At too great a price.
Crashes to ashes,
We all fall down.
Secrets in the Sand - (Part 9)Huddled on the backs of two sandhorses, still wild and restless despite the sweetroot, Hunter and Logan waited for the signal from Liliana. Under the thick burlap blankets their breath soon became heavy and hot. They dared not lift the coarse cloth, even for a second. They waited, not long, for a stampede.
Liliana unbolted the large, firewash-fused sand doors to the stable and gave them a gentle push, creating a small gap between them. Climbing astride her favorite sandhorse near the back of the herd, she pulled back on its reins, hard. Pawing the air, her mount whinnied and danced, turning in a tight circle in the crush of beasts. Startled, the group of twelve horses began to mill uneasily. One slap at the flank of a beast to the rear, and the whole group was panicking. Untameable, the sandhorses needed little coaxing to charge the doors. The doors offered no resistance against the might of the herd, and soon the stampede spilled into the clearings between buildings.
It was all Hunter
What Are The Odds?If you counted all the stars in the sky,
And all the planets that circle them,
You would have a big number.
I can't count that high, in fact.
The chances of you being on any given planet
Are not even (one) in that number.
Life has to exist first,
Then specifically humans,
And very much more specifically,
The chances of me being here too,
Are so very much smaller,
Being here in the same moment as you?
The fact that we are the essentially the same,
Feel the same emotions as all other human beings,
And are able to communicate them,
With one another?
Can you imagine what the odds are against that happening?
But it is happening. Right now.
As you are reading these very words.
Did you and I really cross paths at all?
In this impossibly enormous universe?
Against incredible odds. Yes.
If that is not a miracle, it's so amazingly lucky
It should make you smile. Every day.
We are not alone.
An endless stretch of emptiness,
And we started out holding hands,
Golden FallOne day, my heart turned solid gold.
We were talking about
Something, nothing, everything.
A shaft of sunlight tumbled down to gild your face,
And pierce my tender, mortal frame,
Ensorceled, I felt my heart,
Multiply in weight.
It fell, thudding leaden in my chest-
Flashing golden brilliance in your light.
From the base substance of myself,
Through the alchemy of your smile.
I tried to cover it with withered leaves,
To conceal its telltale glow.
So full of treasures already,
I can never know or share-
So richly full,
My heavy heart,
Is but another burden.
And so, I will hide forever,
This priceless treasure,
Amid uncounted golden leaves.
Each Day, A VictoryThe world has a thumb,
And I was born under it.
Pressing down on me,
Until I couldn't breathe.
It came down in inches,
In little lines, like,
"No one will love you,
If you don't love yourself, first."
That must be what happened, then
As an infant in the cradle,
I didn't know that I existed,
And so, I didn't love myself.
That must have been the reason,
And the justification why,
No one ever loved me either.
Sometimes, I want to throw,
Those twisted little lines,
Back in the faces of the self-proclaimed,
Gurus of our time.
They seem so tidy and trite,
As if all the hatred and abandonment I have suffered,
All boils down to the fact that I don't love myself.
Well, I don't love myself.
I never learned how, because no one would teach me.
As a child, we starved, barely eating,
And yet I grew fat on cheap foods,
All my family could afford.
And the gurus of the world tell us,
"You are what you eat."
"The body is a reflection of the soul."
As if that's an explanation for this lumpy body.
Together ApartSurprisingly, it wasn't the cold numb that crept in,
Isolating us from one another.
It wasn't the technology,
Drawing thin, clear boundaries,
Parceling us into categories,
Binding our hands to keyboards,
Our minds crouched into small collectives.
It was the fear that came from knowing,
No matter how connected we became,
We were trapped, stuck in our own minds,
No matter the vast amounts of shared knowledge,
We are like butterflies, trapped inside bubbles,
Ever unable to be touched.
Secrets in the Sand - (Part 7)Once re-united with the other members of Lana's platoon, the group split into two parties, the larger remaining mounted to return to Beyl more swiftly, Lana, Logan, Hunter, and three others remaining behind, to trek along on foot. The mounted group would report on the status of the others, and the gate guards would remain on alert for their late evening return.
Trudging through the softly glowing Coba stone gates, just before dusk, Logan could remember little of the journey. His mind seemed to see nothing but sand, endlessly stretching before him, and even now, his feet wanted to keep marching as he stood, half asleep, listening to Lana de-brief her Commander.
He remembered the Commander, Thurgred, addressing Lana with a curt statement, spoken too low for him to hear, and Lana flashing him a worried look. He glanced to Hunter, but he was in a worse state than Logan, his head nodding and his body sagging in his heavy plate. The two had been pushed beyond their limits, and now something
Secrets in the Sand - (Part 8)There were moments Logan thought he was dead. The underground cell was cold, colder than the surface ever was on Skylara. The thick Coba stone was cold to the touch, and somehow felt damp. Rubbing his dry, chapped hands along their smooth surface yielded not one drop of moisture for his aching lips or throat.
Hunter lay across the lower bunk, unmoving, his white blond hair radiant in the darkness. Logan had not wanted to wake him, yet. There was no food, no water, and no hope of escape that he could see. The cell was a mere 3 meter cube, with two bunks carved into either wall. Iron bars and an iron gate blocked the opening to the cell, providing a clear view of the entire interior for the guards, including the waste flue, a disgusting hole in the corner of the chamber, not large enough for a man's head to pass.
There was no chance of enlarging that hole, either. Everyone knew Coba Stone was harder than steel, nothing on Skylara could carve it. It was still a desperate mystery
when you find yourself
in a crowd of familiar faces,
the struggle for breath
You Will PayI can taste the fear upon you:
The cold sweat in your palms,
The eyes that dart at shadows,
And the lips that are forced into a tightened smile.
You wait beneath the blankets,
Shivering each night as the anxiety rises.
You gasp at the slightest sounds and quiver...
For you are afraid of the curse that comes.
In your mind you see what you have done to me.
You watched as you ripped my tongue
And stole the very voice from my soul!
But even if I am without a body,
Even if I can no longer hold a knife to your throat.
Fear alone is enough for me to silence you,
And I will NEVER allow you to be heard!
MazeLost within myself
Looking for a way out
This cannot end like this
Trapped in my own mind
A maze with no exit
I keep running and running
But I always end up
In the same place where I began
Inner DemonI harbour a monster,
It lingers deep within.
It wants to escape me,
To tear free from my skin.
It gnaws at my insides,
And hopes that I'll give in.
It works hard to tempt me,
To lead me into sin.
It wants me to suffer
To feel its wretched sting.
But I stand true and strong,
I will not let it win.
The nights are the hardest,
In bed I pray and sing
To the Lord God above
To rid me of this thing.
But instead it remains,
My monster still within.
RustThe dwelling rust
swells this hollow garden
and somewhere in the yard
a tire swing goes flat
against the skyline.
It chokes the autumn light
in the silo,
the crush of
mums and ragged berries
It bubbles in the percolator
steeping still life
in the caul
of early morning -
the red-brown crumbs
of breakfast toast and jam
growing ghosts upon
And deep inside
I still hear you waking up
the soft salute
of morning voices
stirring the wind
outside my window.
Slaves of the deadSlaves of the dead
to find another land,
but they couldn't stand the desert and the frost.
Some died, some returned.
For those who returned
the masters had prepared a special punishment.
Their memory was wiped off.
They became thieves,
without ever understanding why.
They just felt it was the right thing to do.
Croon.And you will have my arms around you
long after the first frost
silences the crickets
that played us to sleep
through our first summer,
and their children
and the children of theirs
will play those same songs
as creases form and deepen
beside our eyes.
And I know this because
of our childish jokes
and because of the words
we are writing.
there’s something about
these kisses hitting their marks
from thousands of miles away
eliciting rouge beneath pale;
I see on your face
the dumbfounded grin
I feel spreading across my own,
our bodies built
scattered by the hand of fate
between two states.
But it is love
who is determined
to complete our picture
and it is love
who shall have her way.
Red Light ReduxHaving a truck
Paint me red
Is the strangest feeling
I’ve ever felt.
I’ve seen myself melt away
Like a mid-summer’s ice cream
While my personality screams
To be noticed. Every wall that once
Stood between me and reality
I am finally free.
Until they strapped me down
And sewed back my hands to my head.
My heart to my mouth.
My legs to the earth.
The taste of freedom
Rests gently on my tongue,
And I’ve been trying
To no avail.
VillainI understand I am Ungoliant,
Oh, I am the fatal mermaid's song,
And the vicious serpent in its tree.
I have breathed the truths,
That tempt too sweet,
Like poisoned honey,
On the inside of your mind.
And I am shivering, freezing,
In the realms of your bitter hate.
I am drowning in the sea of your disdain,
As you cry out to the four winds,
That I must be killed.
My death the only thing
That can satisfy your
Call for sacrifice.
I, who stand alone,
But not by myself.
The eyes of all the world
Are on your actions
And judge your judgement.
I am the outcast member
Of the perfect family,
Waiting with open arms
As you tell me I am unwanted
For not being perfect, too.
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More