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About Literature / Hobbyist R. Elyse T.Female/Canada Recent Activity
Deviant for 6 Years
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Statistics 56 Deviations 221 Comments 9,703 Pageviews

Newest Deviations

Lady Truth
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 steps, keeping close to the foot of the ginger brick wall; the graffiti seems to candidly describe her, pronouncing in hushed choruses the loops of her principled comprehension. It collects around her, ink surges in the shape of halos, for each molecule of her alignment.  Around her you can smell realism slowly melting into the paprika within t
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 3 5
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 allow myself to pick.
Always there would be daisies growing along my path, offering themselves to me.
Don’t worry; I am not as resistant to your fragrance as you would think.
Should the tides of abysmal slumber rise over me, it is your apparition that glints at the surface, heaving me up into undeserved warmth.
Wrench yourself from me, while you rem
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 3 3
Interrupted Sky
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 twirl through my roaring expression,
Flame engulfs all traces of make-believe futures,
Where blethering tongues, once sat proud,
But helpless to change the winds of humanity.
To the skies our bright frustration journeys,
Exposed, wild, auburn mane of righteousness
Burn me to the bone, to my frowning skull of clay
My boiling mind,  effigy to the hum
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 2 6
Mists of Luetalse
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 cliff-side. We walked carefully on thin, rocky margins between circular pools, seeing clearly the rim of sky along the wall of ashen steam that endlessly escaped the tip of the central mountain.
In the winter however, the steam is visible from everywhere at once; it leaks from cracks in the ground, comes up amidst the half-frozen pools in large bubbles
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 3 5
Mature content
Reconcilliation of the Submission Paradox :iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 2 0
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 afternoon.
Then there is a bed over the water, I give up swimming and instead try to sleep, but huge spiders walk on my body, making me unable to close my eyes.
I am told I am allergic to the water, what I say about spiders is ignored.  I leave.
I walk around, seeing that what should be bedrooms are mostly small, empty apartments all over the house. Th
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 1 4
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 mantle. The air is still, the cold a pleasant hindrance, as Lumi is able to wander gloveless, touching each gigantic pine in thought. Each tree speaks to her in a unique way, telling of the earth and the sky, of what speaks the wind, what whisper the animals nuzzled against their roots, or perched among their branches. She hangs, on all of them a
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 8 5
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.
I have seen the light about you, silken sheets on your glowing skin, glistering pools of gold in your eyes, and beams of radiant bliss, flowing ethereal from your core. No particular shade of mind made you unpleasant in my eye;  I am so accustomed to your fašade, I tend to let the trivial slip. I waited long nights in blindness, clouds of desire still dorman
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 118 50
Wait ahead of me, when I need to momentarily stop. Looking over my shoulder, I need to make sure once again that the truth is catching up. My gaze, molten passivity, slides from the dusty road to the horizon, the oppressing sunset heavy on my brow. My tired feet let the anchor of pain drop beneath the waves of silence; something in my shoulders is unhinged, left hanging. The cold wind slips like cold streams into my sleeves, yet the more I tighten my shall, the more I shiver. The air is eroding my flesh, turning my bones into dust, as a ghost I subsist as a mere receptacle to the elements. My breath becomes still, I stand unmoving in the eternal abyss, only a blink away from the sound of your voice, waiting ahead.
On the hard earth again I smile, taking a step closer to your side.
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 0 0
Paleur sans source
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 cœur 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
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 0 0
Mature content
Vulnerability Screams :iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 0 0
The Tangible Visitation
She sat cradling an extinguished flame, a breath of anticipation in the night.
Waiting for the blankets to rise like giant birds of mercy, flying off into the unseen distance of final significance.
"The seams may eventually pull away", she hopes.
The time would come when the ever-burning stars in the hallway to invade her private slice of nothingness; he would come in silently, spreading the phenomenon of his being, fog of  possession, through the room. He would hold her warmly against his drumming machinery.
A crocodile pulled into the muddy, tantalizing womb.
The unrestrained jocote tree, swallowed by the raging sky, does not remember the seed. She forgets to include herself within the whole, unwind the potentiality, the fruit rolling away from dusted roots.
Waiting for snakes of wind to sow themselves into the curtains, digging deep into cryptic patches of lunar shadings.
"I might, at least for this time, decide to stay", she sighs.
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 4 0
Our Prince
"Pupils of dark, clouded blooms,
Shades of betrayal under the foliage.
Not daring the shine of the sharp edge,
Our Prince descends into the depths.
Weighed down by a young life unlived,
Earthly pearls of vengeance and vanity,
To the crescent moons he weeps,
Palest skin glowing helplessly into the night.
Before a fallen leaf can stride to the lake's surface,
With a gentle breeze through the vine of his hair,
A wealth of beauty and substance melts away.
Athanacios becomes a dream,
Per chance, an imagined reminiscence.
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 0 0
Éponge le sang avec les pends de tes habits
Jeune femme, la mer poussera son cours contre toi
Mais toujours, résiste avec ton sourire vert
L'eau sera toujours salée, et la terre fertile
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 0 0
The Word not yet Written
Swimming in thick "reality", where most have already given up, drowned, sunk to the bottom where they can sow themselves down and forget. (They forget we are only partially animals; we are just as well inexistent. You can choose to be the parasite, or to stand and face peace.)
Into the seasonal shifts, I remind myself that time is watery.
Melt up all the fancy vases you want, keep your passing years on a far away shelf. Let it take your shape, your atavistic ivory smile, until the last drop is devoured. Continue to greedily put life above all things, especially nature.
Moments plummet, slip away, from your crisped fingers.
Some remain thirsty for genuine, unconditional…(alas, the word not yet written)
Memorizing the significant dates of past not yet unrolled.
Foreseeing our births.  
A house by a ripple less lake, a little boy that never grows old.
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 5 9
The Red Sea
Sanguine citrus explodes in all directions
An ectoplasm of trust, residue of excitement
Stagnant, overcoming supremacy
The pond,
The ripples cutting through chiffon skirts
Come pick up the next plastic fruit
Let the juices drip from your lips-
And gather between your clenched knees
Extend your brand to the horizon,
Command the elements to your naive vigour,
Cut through the watery, insufferable wait.
Sweet, young demise, please
Strike me quick.
:iconkamalaksh:kamalaksh 1 0

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Ruler of a Lonely Kingdom
On the precipice of a lonely mountain of despair, I sit looking expectantly
Listless eyes, once full of the spark of life sweep across my tattered kingdom, searching for miserable company
From my throne of isolation I watch forlornly
As flames openly rebelled against bleak skyline, sparing not a thing
Long absent are the images of fleeing people, leaving only lonely streets
Ethereal voices are my only companions offering a misleading solace
A non-existant audience watches on with me as the morbid spectacle unfolds
As silently the vain city is consigned to Oblivion
I am truly Sovereign of the nothingness and the mocking silence is my domain
Seconds pass by as if they were eterneties in my boreal realm
and perpetual nightfall forever smothers the mortal day
Slowly, I too fade into the emptiness as the last shred of sanity is pried from my frost-bound fingers
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She Said Please
Tell me about beauty
She said
Glittering purple bobby pins
And the sun in strangers' eyes
Tell me about clementines
Picnic afternoons
And the way the world could be
Braid flowers in our curls
-Golden, rust, mahogany, dark-
And paint us lovely pictures
From the waving branches of trees
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My Muse
she misuses
my blues.
That wild-eyed fae
tells me, "Come what may,"
but she lives by the light of the moon.
And anon,
and on,
she dies each day
by the garish light of noon.
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Seventeen-Word Tears
You spin these twenty-six alphabet letters
around in circles and lines
that make my eyes drip down salt lines,
and the circles of my eyes close, quiet.
The combinations dance from your fingertips
onto paper and screen,
spinning stories and memories,
questions and I-need-help-with's,
making my chest ache like panic attacks -
my ten fingers stutter out responses,
hiding the drops behind ellipses and dashes,
hiding the why-don't-you-understand's?
You send your love in seventeen word blocks
that make me shake in misunderstanding and confusion -
they remind me of plastic fruit not meant for teeth,
but that I have eaten and enjoyed.
Your lock must be a hard one to pick,
because all of the combinations
I have spilled in the past five years
from the pen of a writer
never have made it open,
but I have watched it crack
time and time again -
but my vision was blurred as always,
and the numbers were made into black-on-silver circles
that my eyes never could catch.
I've wondered how many pla
:iconcommonstrosity:commonstrosity 15 15
Speak Nothing by katshadow Speak Nothing :iconkatshadow:katshadow 5 2


:iconda-poetics: :iconankhmorporkers: :iconthepratchett-society: :iconthe-discworld-guild:



R. Elyse T.
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
Current Residence: Uncertainty
Favourite genre of music: Alt Rock/Classical/Electronic/Hippie/Indie/ Funk/Anything...
  • Listening to: Clara Schumann
  • Reading: The Anthills of the Savannah -Achebe
  • Watching: Cloud Atlas
Are things better? Yes.

Full time jobs are hard and take a toll on a person. They are necessary even if they feel like betrayal to your real calling- if I could only delete any needs I pretend to have, to do nothing by follow the sun day by day an transfer his energy into writing.

Financial stability does feel good. I started this job last fall and have already received too much money, more than I know what to really do with- I can allow myself to dream of things, things I never thought we in reach, but it still feels like selling a part of me to something big and inconceivable. I will be a Proposal Writer soon, it's not the type of writing I wish I was doing, but it's selling my words, not for happiness, but for mere continuity...and that's better than swimming in the uncertain waters of last year.

I have less time to myself, and yet I write more than I ever had before. I constantly recall that "those who do nothing never have any time, yet those who do everything always have time". I wake up early each morning, taking the silence as my own and I progress, writing becoming a need instead of a discipline. Of course, I still don't find myself disciplined enough, but that will always be.

I found the eyes and minds I needed, I think. The support group is a good motivator, reality checks on a string...I do hope it will lead me where I wish to go. The chasm of publishing is as deep as ever, as reading on the subject is not really helping, like it usually does. What helps is reminding myself that the message and the sharing of the message is truly important, I could care less about success... My writing still hasn't made a true friend however, I'm still searching.

I'll be moving out of my basement apartment soon, some sunlight, actual windows, it might be what I need for spring.


Add a Comment:
KatrinaFTW44 Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2013
Thanks for the fave :)
AyeAye12 Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2013  Student Writer
Congratulations on the DD. Fantastic stuff :D
AyeAye12 Featured By Owner Mar 8, 2013  Student Writer
Hi! I revised the second part of the Sands of Ruin Intro you commented on a while back, and thought you might want to see it? It's far from perfect, and I've been pointed out a few spelling errors, but I would like to know if its an improvement or not in your eyes? [link] Cheers!
kamalaksh Featured By Owner Mar 8, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
This will be done!!
AyeAye12 Featured By Owner Mar 8, 2013  Student Writer
nawkaman Featured By Owner Feb 14, 2013
Thank you so much for the fave and for taking an interest in my work :hug:
kamalaksh Featured By Owner Feb 15, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Not at all, I hope to delve further into your work :D
naikki Featured By Owner Feb 5, 2013
Thank you for faving [link] :)
pascal-prevost Featured By Owner Feb 4, 2013
Merci pour ton :+fav:
ptitjo Featured By Owner Feb 4, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Merci pour le favori :hug:
Add a Comment: