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Literature Text
You are not the grey anvil of your library
burdened as it is with thick tomes of memory,
nor are you the buttery words of your pale skin,
a layer once forced out in salty, inky angers.
You are not the warm push of the high ribald sun,
or the dark morning fret of unknowing,
that seeks direction from half-remembered deities,
left lingering in a cold dawn.
You are the construct of a Kite,
patchwork angles in primal colour,
translucent, teflonic,
gathering miniature masses of time
storing your wants in trinity rods,
almost
eternity bound
by the cast of gravity,
but for a fleeting second of flight.
burdened as it is with thick tomes of memory,
nor are you the buttery words of your pale skin,
a layer once forced out in salty, inky angers.
You are not the warm push of the high ribald sun,
or the dark morning fret of unknowing,
that seeks direction from half-remembered deities,
left lingering in a cold dawn.
You are the construct of a Kite,
patchwork angles in primal colour,
translucent, teflonic,
gathering miniature masses of time
storing your wants in trinity rods,
almost
eternity bound
by the cast of gravity,
but for a fleeting second of flight.
Literature
Entwined
In dew-bright dawn the green sap runs
From ageless roots the cycles draw
The summer bloom from winter’s thaw
Our youth has seen uncounted suns
The moonlight wanes; the known stars fall
Yet still we live and love anew
We rise in joy like summer dew
Return Beyond at autumn’s call
And so we dance the early light
Eternal hearts in time entwined
The turning cycle spinning, blind
Embracing us in secret night
Literature
lightkeeping
As you pick up the lantern in front of you, you find it filled with a busy, buzzing flurry of lights. Somebody stuffed fireflies into this one - not the proper thing at all. You unfasten the latch, open the door; the little bugs stream out gratefully. They bathe the wayside in a faint glow for a moment, then vanish in the pitch-black of the Long Night one by one.
You settle down cross-legged and gently put the empty lantern onto your lap to dream up a star.
Literature
A Gift
I keep thinking about burying myself in your embrace, my face in your hair. And while I regret the fact that we both seem to be too much of damaged, quietly broken cowards to even talk about that night when we so naturally, seamlessly, gravitated towards each other, seeking warmth and comfort underneath the covers - using our sleep-pliant bodies to protect each other from the night - I am glad that it happened at all. Because to know that it is not a thing of fiction to actually feel like that in someone's arms… I am afraid you will never know how much of a gift it was that you unwittingly gave me. Still, I would give near anything for
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Given to Fly.
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Comments30
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or the dark morning fret of unknowing
gorgeous diction.
gorgeous diction.