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SymphonyI dreamed of you last night.
I dreamed of your pale skin,
your clenched fists,
your wide, stunned eyes;
the perfect teeth lining your open mouth.
There was a man I knew, in the trenches,
who thought death was beautiful.
Saw Mozart in the massacres,
Desgas in the destruction.
Used to call the twisted faces of the dead
the ones Picasso never drew.
I think we pretended to be disgusted, but really
we were envious:
all we saw was horror.
I dreamed of you last night.
How you looked when I met you:
eyes I could finally see the whites of.
I don't remember their color.
My friend in the trenches posited
that to destroy is to create:
that to kill is a man's magnum opus,
his most masterful work.
If that's so, I suppose you were
And in my dream, I heard your cry,
like a horn solo;
saw the color leave your face,
like paint chased by water;
heard the crack of my gun,
saw the symphony of your blood
sprayed across the ground
in glorious carmine.
I broke the paperweight today.
The one that you gave me, before you left for good.
I remember thinking, at the time, that it was a pretty lousy gift
for all the things I'd given you.
The painful, sleepless nights,
the shattered feelings and
The silent reception of small, sharp words
like slivers of glass in my skin,
the times you were hurting so bad yourself
you took it out on me.
You tore me up, wore me down,
threw me out, then walked away
leaving me with this lump of glass and paint (now shattered)
like a talisman to protect me, in the future
against people like you.
like these shards of glass on my floor,
I find you in unexpected places.
When I'm walking barefoot through the room
when I'm going through old photographs,
when I'm trawling through my memories,
I accidentally step-
and I have to remind myself that I'll never see you again,
or have to deal with you again,
and I feel that bittersweet mix of relief and sadness,
ExceptionalI am not particularly
I do not
than those around me.
I am often lost.
I am often weary.
I am not a queen
or a heroine.
And yet you
take my hand
touch my hair
lift my face to yours and
say you love me.
I think that maybe
there is more to life
than being exceptional.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More