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To Touch the SkyWrapped in rapt wonder upon a bed
of smooth pebbles and sand,
rasping cool beneath fingertips
outside the cocoon of sleeping bag.
Water ripples softly, falling on stone.
One thousand rhythms twist on the wind
whispering gently through shadow leaves
on unseen branch and limb.
And there, suspended on a thought,
caressed by silver cloud,
like gems the stars are glimmering
to fragile tune, an unheard sound.
Breathe scent of mist upon the air
like song both sweet and cold;
taste silver strands of light;
let heartbeats, soft, unfold
the echo of eternity,
like mystery, its chime.
Only touch forever, now,
suspended within time.
Ten Vials of BloodOh, helpful vampire,
there's no simple word for your single-toothed bite.
Your dangerous cousins may laugh in scorn,...
Metal and modern you may be,
but you're still foreign to me.
Your only benefit is keen;
you rely on senses I've not seen.
Ten vials of blood remain, forlorn....
Reassure me again that this wasn't spite?
Oh, helpful vampire ...
Burnt Blood and FeathersDream softly, there, nestled close to heart and breath
and rhythm of blood pulsing through close-bonded nest
of anchored expectation and hope bound to aspiration
where ruffling wind blows through
in sighs that lift feathers nestled close beneath limitations.
Pulse of my blood, wings of my heart, do not lift nor fly
when held so close where none might injure or despise.
Frail dream too weak to lift its head,
yet treasured still.
May as well be dead.
Give, give your heart in sacrifice to the Shaper of all
at such a price, this loss of claim feels like a fall
and tearing dreams to death, to give,
cut off from weakened will
release this mangled emptiness ... to live?
Feathers drift in wind, impressive promise from bloodstained quills
in mockery of hope, it seems. For what can fill
this death of form and shape and art
this gaping hole, here, beneath my weeping.
This bleeding hole into my heart.
And all around, flying high as if to mock this choice,
swoop and soar sweet dreams (not mine) sin
Playing PretendShe plays pretend in the halls of home
being princess or mommy or both
in the sparkle of dreams within tangled waves
because imperfect is full of laughter
and love wraps her as she is.
She plays pretend on the streets
performing the lover princess
amid shells of dreams tried and discarded
because imperfect isn't enough
to fill the gaping need for love.
She plays pretend for magazines
a false-front princess for selfish eyes
skinned with dreams and disguised by art
hiding imperfection behind laughter and desire
because flaws mean love will not find her.
She discards pretense into holy hands
which raise her as princess of the kingdom
and exchanges her dreams for the treasure keys
because imperfect is simply the reason to trust
and true love heals the exposed and broken.
The ForgottenYoung vacant eyes upon
the war-torn emptiness
of broken walls, grey dust.
Passed by, the wounded child waits
still wearing tears from long-flown days.
Seconds tick as dripping damp etches stone.
Deep grooves of past
and sand-scoured now echo the vacancy.
Oh, how the child wanders
frightened, frozen in the chill,
awaiting touch and hoped-for life.
But, lost and hopeless, hollow
cries echo silent in the wind.
Time folds around the wisp of red;
her fabric scarf hangs,
motionless in gusting breeze;
dead leaves drift sullen in the gloom
to pile against unmoving feet.
And memory forgets that she is there
when no eyes see those wisps of hair
caught in motion, incomplete.
This fallen city will not last.
But she continues still
amid destruction, drained of will.
Only an understanding gaze
could ever heal her from this place.
The Reason for PainWe know it,
the raw sensation
that springs in the surprise of a moment
and shocks us aware.
Sometimes it waits on the edge of our senses,
building to a peak,
then borders our every thought through time.
And always the secret message, embedded within,
whispers to the heart that all is not well.
And it seems unfair that we must suffer
while our pills and injections strive
in empty defiance against a world
gradually crumbling from within.
For still the echo of pain
calls us back to the knowledge
of a something better that must exist.
We have seen that loss of pain is worse,
and the body forgets what causes harm
if it does not suffer a consequence.
We all know to look for the cause to learn the remedy.
And in the end, we search for the healer
who promises to replace evil with good.
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More