She doesn’t step outside, she jumps from the second landing of stairs unto the pavement, her movement is graceful, but contains too much strength, copious resentment. Biting the insides of her bottom lip, the obscure mines of sharpened discernment she uses as optic centers glide quickly from side to side as her feet remain solidly grounded.
Some look her way, retorting with glances and frowns like charged electrons– she is daring them to question her place as core, as the primary source of ardour. Some move away, pushed by the ripples of her presence, unable to handle the weight of her time overlapping their own.
She makes a few
I stop, letting the moment sink.
I look down at my feet on the sidewalk.
I’m standing on a trench in the cement.
Down the street, laughing children slurp avidly the last drops of summer.
The sun is borrowing a stairwell between two cubed shaped apartment buildings. Rays grab on, the light wrings out.
He’s there, a shadow in the corner of my eye. Like an angered crow he soars off, disappearing, one among millions of pitch-black inches, out of my reach yet again.
I peer into myself, holding my tacit gut…No, I don’t seem to mind.
To search a pebble in a quarry is what I was born for.
The moments of rest, I rarely
After years of holding swelling bricks,
Wood drenched in thought, oozing
The passage of time, the successions of debate,
Where ideas began to turn to stone.
I absorbed them all, never shouting out
The etchings of corrupted hopes, behind
Maroon wallpaper, tapestries threaded in gold.
Lanterns, hosts for true spoken light,
Held by mindfully fashioned cherubs,
Let go, a few droplets of fiery revolution,
Sparks, catalysts, free minds, ignore the steel
Structures of assumption and convention,
Sear and tear away my membrane of plaster,
See my verities, dressed in layers of silver grime.
Finally I exhale, control and command in disarray.
Pages tw
I was raised to know each slope and crevice of my island, to understand its movements and temperaments. I have bordered the entire circle of rock more than once, getting to know my home as if it were the visage of a close sibling.
My father first took me on the thirty-day journey when I was very young, in the early spring, describing the land as though we were birds in the sky, as I ravenously absorbed the scenery, drawing each detail on a mental map. At that time, our island, which is really the head of a dormant volcano, Mt. Luetalse surrounded by sulfured water, was still half submerged in the surplus of melted ice and scuttled up the cli
Same house as before, the windows are heavily draped with towels and blankets, there are masses of laundry piles everywhere, especially the stairwells and near the doors.
Distorted forms do uncanny things; mostly show their partial or angry faces.
People talk of things moving out of place and objects disappearing, but they don’t seem overly concerned.
We drive to the beach, but it turns out to be my bedroom. I open the wooden door and the room suddenly has no furniture. It has stormy water, big waves, and a fishnet over the deeper water. I can see huge crabs and fish. I am expected to swim, like one would swim at a lake in the afterno
The Page of Promise: A Winter Solstice Tale by kamalaksh, literature
Literature
The Page of Promise: A Winter Solstice Tale
In the depths of a night that's about to begin
with the feeling of snow as it melts on your skin
and it covers the land with a dream so intense
that it returns us all to a child's innocence
And then what you'd thought lost and could never retrieve
is suddenly there to be found on Christmas Eve
-Trans-Siberian Orchestra
The sound of her boots breaking the snow is delicate and light, like meditated, unhurried piano notes. She walks gracefully between the pine trunks, their needles making a cover for falling snow above her head. Her face, a frozen petal of porcelain, eyes of crystalline frost, is framed by the hood of her white, fur-lined
I
I've for long known that beauty is not a sum, where units of measurements could consist of physical attributes, or of anything that could be perceived by bodily senses. The vivid, lush green of a finally quenched apprehension is just as graceful and lovely as the wrinkled and sunburnt blues of a distant memory's wall flowers. Beauty is a spectrum of vigour, the fluctuations of ideas, concepts, actions and thoughts, which become their own purposeless musical colours and flavours. No consensus creates allure, only a great, breathless leap into the disarray of affective venture may lead the consecrated energy to emerge.
II
I have seen the li
Sous l'étanche emprise du souffle constant
Nous passons, silencieux, entre les arbres
Vagues de brume, imposantes et opaques
S'étirent, des reflets inondés de vents
Un espoir incandescent nous attire enfin
Pâleur éclairée voguant, libre, sans source
Au cur d'une nuit sans contrée ou ère
Les enfants de la suite, attendent toujours
Le commencement, l'éveil du saule blanc
Gardant en mémoire, l'histoire de la fin
Athanacios- Amdeflor, Tryn 834 by kamalaksh, literature
Literature
Athanacios- Amdeflor, Tryn 834
Your touch of epidemic light
Is the dew of trust,
Falling on wounds of kinetic time
Take my defiance
As the last heartbeats of a fiend
Finally take it's leave
Making my flesh my own to give.
You've caught a petal in the wind
Torn, dried and pierced
Release me to the depths of Jeffa's obscurity
Comb through the silk of my being
As the waves rise and break
The one you deserve,
Mysterious flora of salt
Reborn.
-Athanacios Year of the Amdeflor, Tryn 834