"DONT READ MEH."The station is a church before the mass, even the faithfuls haven't bothered to get out of bed and into their Sunday clothes for a shameless display of hypocrisy. It is after all too early on a Sunday morning. Bre walks down the escalator into the platform, each step echoes into the still morning air, disturbing it a little, but not enough to wake it by her lonesome. She fished out her dog eared book from the shoulder bag after settling down to a seat as far from the doors as possible. It isn't common for commuters to start small talks with a complete stranger who is clearly too absorbed in her own activities to care for them; but it happens."DONT READ MEH."
Dreams Series II screamed as I woke. I saw flame on the horizon. Great wildfire raged as if fueled by hatred of men. Its smoke smothered the night sky. I looked up and saw the moon. She wore a red dress as if soaked with blood. Blood of the fallen, of the innocence, and of mine. And I was kneeling to a scorched corpse of a fallen warrior. His face half-burnt but I knew he wasn't one of mine. He was the enemy. Yet I prayed for him. I prayed for his safe voyage to the other side. I prayed that what he had done here will be remembered. I prayed what I had done here was enough to honor his soul. Soul of a warrior.Dreams Series I
And I pray that I, too, will one
The SnowingSurrounded by sublime beauty and we never stop to reward ourselves with but a few seconds to truly appreciate it. Snow comes and goes every season, just like the holidays. The few times we sit down, and stop worrying about the material world, the cost of living, or the next due date on the electric bill. We stop and reward ourselves with a few short days of living instead of letting the current pulling us under. I remember a habit of my old man. He always reserves a few minutes a day at the coffee table in the morning, detach himself from the material world, and delve into another, where the sublime beauty we so often walk on by is theThe Snowing
TrappedTime is often put out of our minds because it is a fact, a constant, and because we couldn't change it. The mind, as a whole, knows that the only thing we could do with time is get trapped in it. For each of us, there's at least one moment, one precise fraction of time we simply could not escape from. In that moment, an artist is born. When we seek to express it, explain it, depict it, or simply seek to share it, we often fail. When we do succeed, that moment transcends time itself. It goes beyond the boundaries that we understand. It exceeds the wildest expectations. It becomes time.Trapped
In Für Elise, Beethoven was trapped betw
Vivid HuesOnce she whispered a word that set the world ablaze, with color, with light, with fire. When the world settled back down a little, she settled down too, curled up tightly as a spring into her bed. He wrapped an arm around her, possessive and tender all at once and she melted into him with a sigh. And she slept. When she woke the world was monochrome. Her word had faded, it was forgotten already. She despaired at how quickly her ripple had calmed. Tears streamed down her cheeks and even these were grey, leaving marks like smoke streaks on her pink, flushed skin. One slipped onto her lips but she licked it off befVivid Hues
not dead.
Questionable
--
Live like you'd die tomorrow. Dream like you'd live forever.
"Bugger off, will ya, mate?" - Me
--
00:37:09 <GunShyMartyr> Why is ~mypenis a seniorpoet?
02:04:14 ** death has left [connection closed]
--
Live like you'd die tomorrow. Dream like you'd live forever.
"Bugger off, will ya, mate?" - Me
--
00:37:09 <GunShyMartyr> Why is ~mypenis a seniorpoet?
02:04:14 ** death has left [connection closed]
--
Live like you'd die tomorrow. Dream like you'd live forever.
"Bugger off, will ya, mate?" - Me
--
Be inspired: *simplyprose and *simplypoetry.
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