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Does Anybody Have The Time?Yeah, I swear,
I never knew ya'.
Your jasmine hair
And canvas eyes,
I hardly listened to ya'.
I'll gladly sit and stare,
If you'd just want me to.
Yeah, I swear,
I still don't know ya'.
Your longing gaze
Drifts on to worlds so far away
I just can't hold on to ya'.
We'll go okay sometimes,
You're better when you're free.
Freer than the wind;
I'll let you chase your whims;
For where, here,
Find the space
To spread their wings?
Ashen ChristmasThe atmosphere has changed. It is neither heavy nor light, neither joyous nor sorrowful, most days. The sun's light has trouble piercing through the clouds. Even today I cannot see it, but the air is brighter. I can feel the sun beyond the chilled horizon. The south winds blow bitter and coldly, but there is solace in the light. The concrete city, painted white by ash, gleams with an unfamiliar warmness - a warmness that was, perhaps, familiar once; the fires blazing in the midst of a slow and peaceful winter. The coldness itself is what is warm, for the memories of warmness that it brings. The atmosphere has changed. There is warmth found in an endless sea of grey. The winter itself is a beacon of comfort. But just for today.
The ash falls like memory; for a second I see snowflakes, floating timidly down, light glimmering on their white-rendered fractal designs, hand-crafted crystals falling like dryad's tears onto the grey concrete. But it has always been ash - cold, coarse ash - and
An Eternity In Grey.There was no sound in that glen where her grave lay - the woman I only knew so very briefly yet who I owed my existence to. My memories, what little I had of her, were fond, yet the headstone was almost bare, save for her name and the wear of eighteen years. No memorial phrase, no decoration or love adorned its cracked face. The rose I had cast down had already begun to wither; its lively carmine hue crumbling tragically into a shallow, livid brown. The snow, which fell in cascades, never fell directly upon the grave, only touching the sacred ground and stone as the wind mischievously coaxed it. Time seemed faster there and the air always seemed colder.
A man had been standing here longer than I had, staring, as I was, at the old grave. The snowflakes danced upon the lapels of his pressed white jacket, like tarnish on an unmoving statue. I knew not who he was, as the unnaturally dark shadow of his white, broad-rimmed hat covered the details that might have elicited a reaction of famili
The Antechamber Ex.2 : JayBang clank clank clank clank
A deafening grating sound, followed by an explosive crack, ringing in her head as the walls morphed, stretched and slid across the stone and iron floors, leaving behind fragments of stone and lighting the gloom with red sparks. They were always fast; moving and closing in just over a second... but this time it felt like a whole minute. She gasped, quietly, as the walls finally closed in some directions and opened in others, mixing up the labyrinthine hallways for what seemed like the thousandth time. After that, there was only the sound of her shallow breathing and the faint whistle of a draught coming in from some distant corner of the maze. She stood unmovingly in that faint cold, her lantern flickering hopelessly and her eyes staring just as hopelessly at the stone wall, where only a few seconds ago there had been a hallway, a window and a boy about her age with a panic-stricken expression.
"Kane!" she screamed, between sobs, staring a
The Antechamber: Book OneIn the dim light, a page turns, upsetting the long dormant dust of forgotten years.
"The window, as I have called it," one book reads, "is a curious room crafted completely from an indestructible, green and glass-like substance; the substance is is quite thin, yet it is so remarkably durable that any force I have yet attempted against it has been completely ineffective in breaking it. It was fairly warm in there when Renard and I visited it; perhaps due to the mechanical whirring not unlike clockwork which can be heard, continually for the most part but stopping in short, twenty-second intervals. Renard said he felt the ground shifting, but I think it may have just been the way the floor was rumbling.
"Beyond the glass, which seemed to be shaped into a circular room with a rounded point at one side (perhaps not unlike a drop of water) we saw nothing but a sheer black void that stretched as far as could be seen. No point of reference within that murk was visible, although we admit that
The Antechamber Ex.1 : HallwayI do not know what happened. My memories of that day seem to recollect a grand feeling of pressure and of cold. I remember the wind and I remember those words she said to me; keep your eye on the mirror. I remember looking out of a window, seeing the snow fall in malign torrents as though the world itself was decrying its people's right to comfort and warmth. I remember a distinct song playing in endless repeat; a tune, unfinished, but of such ambient buoyancy as to evoke feelings not dissimilar to the calm after a difficult storm.
That night, I had a dream, which I do remember very well. It was by no means an ordinary night-vision; whose sleepy, nocturnal depths feel as if they are perfectly real until one awakes. In this dream, I was in a hallway that neither seemed to end nor begin. My footsteps rung hollow and vague; not the slightest echo reached my ears . The dark, aged timber that comprised the floor and the walls was like ice to the touch. I could feel nothing else. Even
The Winters' Cafe: EdgeThere was a time, you see, when the gun and the bullet were considered the weapons of cowards and thieves. A blackhearted sort of weapon, they'd say, with some degree of truth to back them. The gun has a particular sort of ease to its operation, the bullet has a range able to best the swiftest and truest arrow and the wound it leaves is rarely a trifling one. To the untrained, it all seems too easy.
The bullet leaves the chamber and subsequently leaves its deadly signature on the victim's heart. To those watching on from the sidelines, there's a sharp crack and a thud as the body hits the floor. It's all over in an instant. What happened? Not a lot. Where's the glory? There isn't any. That's what they say.
But times change, of course. The world isn't as simple as it used to be. Targets become faster, skin becomes harder, reflexes become sharper... and soon the simple act of point, click becomes a little more like fencing. An endless stre
Kiya Holmes: For CC123.The standard order of things was, I noticed, rarely the best way to get things done. A bumbling squad of ill-trained 'officials', doing some ridiculous dance around the crime scene, tipping and disrupting all evidence, causing all sorts of havoc, removing all chance of ever finding a satisfactory verdict. Conjecture would be tossed to and fro, attention paid to the most irrelevant details, and eventually the inspector would stand up from whatever seat he had fallen asleep in and yell;
"I have found the murderer! It was clearly the butler, for he was in the room with the victim and his clothes are stained with his blood! Besides the victim, he was the only one with access to this room! It is in-discussible! It is in-debatable! It is in-refutable!"
Nodding agreements would follow, a shuffling of boot-clad paws would fill the air, irons would be clasped on the butler, the scene would be tidied up and they would all start to go home.
Of course, that is normally when the usual order of thin
Your sweetness is wasted upon those who care not.
I shall stand by,
As one observes a painting,
Able to see,
But not to touch,
Nor to claim.
They pass by as one passes in a museum;
One hundred faces,
Each one noting the beauty,
To forget in a moment.
I shall not forget.
I shall admire you, malcontent.
They shall love you with their simple love,
Whose crude baseness
May be spent on any just as well,
While I admire you and all that you are,
From this, the safest distance.
Hate the MankindDo you kindly remember us, Earth?
We are destroying you
We'll pollute you
for the ignorance
is not a sin
Would you kindly forgive us, Earth?
Mr. Evolution created the brain
for all this stupid junk
so blame him more than us
We are like city rabbits
annihilating the Eden, which could have been ours
if we hadn't been so greedy
As a part of this society, I despise the mankind
because I love you my dearest Earth!
Second DestinationOn the upside down mountain
Colored oil black
I saw a house there
Front of it the bridge
between the mountain and a
200 floors high building
while 10 children
were running on the roof
All died in the fall
And so was my
AndromedaAmongst the darkened skies
Brightened by only starlight
Field & Sea.
Gravity is only an afterthought
Hilltops become ladders into the sky while
Inferior planets stare down upon the Earth
Jealous of such simplicity yet contemplating grandeur.
Keppler only thought of science
Linear, elliptical, movement…
Mythology had no such thoughts
Neptune & Nebulas both inhabit space
Orbiting across the lonely darkness
Probably never worried about mundane things
Questioning their existence
Right now or for all eternity such as us.
Shooting stars make us joyful while
Terminator is an otherworldly spectacle
Unknown to all those hidden in their houses
Various stars await us outside
Waiting to play like we did before
Xenagogue & inviting
Youthful but ancient curiosities.
Zenith induced euphoria continues until daylight…
The Beauty of the Flight OneOh bird,
oh how I envy you so
with your wings so delicate
but has the strength
to fight and navigate through
the ever pushing winds
your sharp and fine beak
an open even
the hardest of words and nuts
to provide the proper amount of food
for your beloved nest
You work so diligently
looking around for signs of danger
to later take flight
if it comes to that
but staying to fight
if your nest comes to harms way
Your call expresses many emotions
that I myself sometimes feel
the purtrid cry of sorrow
the beligerant screech of anger
the prepossessing song of love and content
Oh how I envy many things
of your careful, free life
I still know of the great dangers
that you constantly face
and I will always admire
how dutefully you deal
with all the troubles
that come with being a bird
30. Under the RainWhen it Rained
Hearing how the water fall
hits the roof
There has been many
who I don't know
to become lost
when it rained
They walk the path
and there is only one way
since it's too hot
when sun still shines
we'll get burned again
so then we are gone
when it rains
Third DestinationThe sky was grey
It was raining
the whole day
No houses, no trees
There was a scent
of salty, bitter tears
Then wind was blowing
Away the broken
pieces of paper
My soul, my home
That was the memory of my
Astronaut, calling from Soilthe astronaut landed
on a nylon moon.
the walls of net allowed no entry
he had a frail bronze skin,
so had a suit of emerald.
and six twig legs were
state of the art, back on Soil.
a giant monster,
jeans and pink and t-shirt,
attacked him in sudden, accidental savagery.
now the astronaut is shutting down,
all in the name of letting a giant
get higher than he needed to.
Moon CycleRare pearl in the sky,
You are ever-changing,
Eluding my grasp
As you dance
In your smiling arc
Around the world.
Like the tide,
My heart is overcome
By your gravitational pull;
my darkest nights of the soul.
All I can do
Is to watch
Until you come full circle.
Twigs in one hand,
Carrot in the other.
All in a hour or two.
They don't care.
They build their living snow.
Only to die of heatstroke the next day.
The Field of the MindBeyond the halcyon sunset
Lies a vibrant, floral heath,
I often go and sit to rest there,
In its timeless, drowsy sheath,
For the air lends me to musing,
And the sounds goad me to write,
For I am always quite alone there,
Save the birds that twirl and song there,
For I have other kinds of friends there,
In that haven out of sight.
There are colours that resound,
Blues and Reds that sound like Violets,
A sheet of tulips that like sirens
Sing with voices wrought of dreams;
Airborne sheets of vibrant yellows,
From the songbird's whistle spun,
From the wind's breath on the lilies,
From the prelude of the sun,
From the vernal scent of morning,
Whisp'ring white when all is sung.
The shadow there still comes,
Just as often as it should,
The lunar sphere its dark hem weaves
Casting quiet o'er the wood,
Yet is stayed in part by memory,
Safely kept at bay by light,
That nature in her total wisdom
Ruled should ever wait behind,
To shine in leaves, in songs, in memory,
'Til the passing of the nigh
Stranger LoveI am not the sunlit wing-print
splayed out on the bedroom wall.
I am not the dark mass forming
in a corner of an airless hall.
I am not the viscous vengeance
where you sink your spinning wheels.
I am not the leaky bucket
hung up on your wishing well.
You are not my soul mate missing
wandering a winter's night.
You are not the sound of angels
singing by a candle's light.
You are not the rasp of fingers
fumbling with a hasp of steel.
You are not the tattered towel
soaking up the things I feel.
I am the oblivious child,
dancing where the wildflowers are.
You are my unwitting captive
lighting up a jelly jar.
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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