kamalaksh

"Amelia."  She says my name with an authorative tang, a slangy sophisticated certainty. I find it funny 'cause she's three shots away from being sloshed and for once I'm the sober one. "Amelia."  She says again, indignant and irritated at my standoffishness, my unresponsive silence. "Amelia."  She repeats, articulating my name from between immaculate teeth.   (  I remain quiet, despondent, and to be honest, I am simply not concerned.  )

She scowls at the asphalt clinging to her knees, jaded wings folding around her like a cloak rusted with soot at the edges, feathered protections she often ignores.  Sweeping tiny pebbles from skin with numbed fingers, she stands at last, crimson dress billowing softly in the wind, the color out of place in the murk of the alley. With a snarl breaking the silence beneath the pout of her lips, she steals a lingering glance at the shadows that blanket the street before succumbing to darkness herself.  She smells decomposition and despair, a tragedy hiding beneath midnight's blind dreams.  But below the stench of t

Her lips were cerulean; a never melting frost. The blue blossomed in the corners of those lips As the white of snow played upon her relaxed face as delicate as moth wings. The perfectly quaffed hair of an angel she laid in her coffin, Her boat that would take her on a voyage to worlds beyond. Reminiscent to the Lady of Shallot. Her song had sung into those who knew her In a clear voice that ran through one's soul As clear as a bird yet soft as a breeze. Woven with the themes of life, In each of us she sung her breath, her spirit. We now carry a part of her with us. Her story becomes ours intertwining with time through love and rem

Parsemer le doute Sur ta blancheur infinie. Faire fondre ton coeur Et noircir ton destin. Ta froideur n'est qu'un mythe Ta douceur de catin... Ta pureté n'aura guère duré Qu'un court instant, Très tôt, ce matin.

It is common knowledge that in culinary delights the mind of men are not always lulled into a dull stupor of comfort and idleness, but rather an Epiphany can arise from partaking victuals-whether savory or plain. Such were the musings of Maximilien Robespierre during one afternoon. The rain had not ceased for three days, which bogged the roads and streets. Mildew followed, seeping through the curled tears on the wallpaper. However, to Robespierre, the rain nor mildew warranted any concern from him presently. His concerns dwelt on matters of a leviathan gravity. Laid before him at his desk was his work, but placed on the salver was a orange

The fog rolls steadily in, Blankets the tree’s lost kin. Dust hangs from each bough And drips from the bark’s brow. Birds glide through the vapor thick And jump like flame to wick. When nothing can be seen, Something new appears, Air from far and between.

Flicker and sway blaze of the night dance with the wind shine in your cage Entrance the misfits with your mystic flame cast the darkest emotions at the end of the day Discover all our sins Gather the subtle fear we have for your mystery Take me away to that one place where the shadows meet the light the in-between of everything Keep me there.

When I lift his thin shirt up over the corners of his lips and pull it against his ebony hair I see the ridges of mountains that rest over his heart; securing it into place. I feel sleek valleys as I trace his tense stomach with the tips of my fingers. I am in wanderlust-- crossing fragile, foregin cities and sun kissed deserts, looking for exploration. Learning his different countries. My hands turn into driftwood ships. His skin becomes my ocean. And, I am home.

It is a truth insufficiently acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a good education may become easily dissatisfied with the prospect of matrimony and marriage.   Miss Katherine Godbehere, known to all as Kitty, was the very exemplar of this unfortunate affliction.  She had inherited from her late father, in addition to a benevolent yearly stipend, a prodigious interest in the Sciences, and read avidly every publication put out by the Royal Society.  Perhaps as a consequence of the eye-strain caused by poring over such close-worded text, she was predisposed to a slight frown which tended to deter her

hearing the high pitch of a ceremonial flute chanting and chasing, how fast and far I run through tall plains grass waving, my long hair streaks across fields of antelope racing, released from the pain that grounds me, free in my flight- the wind whistling through hinged bones, twisted and twisting- sweat lodge tears preclude when I might laugh again