harveybirdman

Oh, mighty giant, how I worship from afar. I see a lone, striding tsar. But I may only gape. Oh, fateful spectre, your visage of a love once known, unearthing the wounds I had sewn. How may I end this pain? Now, squinting siren, I climb aloft to reach to you. Now my life shall 'gin anew, and I smile at the thought. And as I jump come close to me you wicked, wicked boy. I am that lovely shattered toy you now hold within your hands.

I like how this outburst fell into a dramatic whisper at the end. Well played.

I am so sorry to hear about the loss of your friend. He was lucky to have you too for the time you shared together.

And dare I ask about that acronym, Luc?

The experience is unforgettable. I get a grin when I remember.

a faltered glance, a look askance but who would stop to guess the chance? blushed cheeks with velvet voice yet no one knew there was a choice a knowing smile, he looks away both know again, again we'll play one lies yearning, try not to kill this delicate bloom by keeping still the other's heart, it is unknown unknown as well is what was sown and so we stage this careful dance leave nothing open nor ope' to chance e'er part as friends though hope we might I say, good sir, a fair good night

I'd build a pyramid and on bowed knee dedicate it to your memory. And if I carved up the moon you would be the first offered a slice. For I hear your plaintive howl on the wind and I answer, with bloodied throat, in kind. Know that when your lonely soul flies the byways of the ether you do not travel alone.

Thank you for your comments. I really appreciate you taking the time. This one feels somehow more deeply autobiographical. Sometimes I wish my inspiration weren't so one-sided but there it is. It wells up on its own or not at all and this seems to nearly always happen in one particular soil (see my profile feed for my blithe explaining away of mixed metaphors) . Exorcism isn't meant to be pretty, I suppose. Of course reading these it looks like this is the only state I am ever in instead of it being the exception.

She hadn't meant to walk in on her father; she'd only wanted a glass of milk before bed. But as the door swung open her ears were greeted with a deafening explosion. Blood and brains painting the walls, a dress, her face. Blood-flecked pigtails quivered, mouth gaping at a landscape in hell. She slowly steps to the side of her slumped hero. Gingerly reaching out to those strong, gentle hands; recoiling at their warmth, now unholy. She bends as if guided by another to retrieve the steel scythe that has already harvested one. Rivulets of her pain roll down and away as she places the barrel just as she was taught.

I am just on day 2 of trying out the Alpha of Grim Dawn. Anyone want to comment on their experience with it or comments or news on the game in general? While barely into this I am still excited about possibilities. But I cannot help but wish more of the bugs could be fixed in Path of Exile as I would gladly jump back there for a long while before fully committing to Grim Dawn.

I loved seeing this. It is comforting to see how far we have come and continue to do so. And their song "Thrift Shop" is fun- your first time watch the video (it makes a difference).

He is the one betting hounds at the Kentucky Derby, speaking a foreign language in a familiar land. He is the one looking for snowstorms in the South, and predicting rain amidst the desert sand. He is... Searching for a niche in alabaster walls, casting no shadow as he roams down the halls. Everyone knows him, a stranger nonetheless, what could possibly ail him is anyone's guess. He is king of a world, and lord over none. Always running the game, but never has won. He's a scholar, a poet, a singer: no rules. He's also a dreamer and dreams are for fools.

this underground, placid ocean of still sadness that has always been at my core usually far below me but standing on the shore is like coming home for a man who dreams of the desert

a tepid sorrow that has lost its fire only to have embers flare into brief life again this haunting melancholy the last hoarse shouts before subsiding into silence extinguished but amid growls

I ask you, gentle reader, would you scorn the violet's death in arctic soil? slave's last exhalation in endless toil? Could you chide or reprimand the Indian's rest after futile fight? the moth's candle respite from his quest for light? Would you then begrudge me my final rest? Would I find a cold, unyielding breast? And if you would that rest but kindly allow, my final breath a kiss of thanks upon your brow.