Perhaps it is incidental. Perhaps it is the Sister Fates Three, their game of Death at play. Perhaps it is the seven-billion, lethargic pairs of eyes set vacuously on a single CRT television set. Here, it rests, sitting rooted to a table of wood, decaying. Furtively, the wind squeezes in through windows of penetrated glass - an unwelcome visitor. Bang! Heads turn. From the depths of the black box comes a ghostly pale hand, palm smacking on the lifeless screen as it attempts to wrench its way out of the pits. As pale white fingers, skeletal, grasp onto thin air, shrieks of agony and howls of anguish make but noise amidst the silence. Dark winds prompt Reality to pick up the gun, lithe arms threatening suffocation as she moves. Pleads and supplication. Malicious taunts. All for nothing, but death. Eyes can do nothing but stare as Reality shuts down. A final Goodbye, she deviously sketches onto the screen, as the trigger is pulled. We are stuck in a surreal state.
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Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
For some reason I can't explain I don't quite know How to say How I feel Those three words Are said too much They're not enough. On the first day of Christmas my family gave to me:
a mass and a turkey dinner. On the second day of Christmas my day gave to me: something I don't remember. On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me: a more-than-great time at the dance. On the fourth day of Christmas my parents gave to me: a surprise shopping trip. On the fifth day of Christmas my family gave to me: a dimsum lunch. On the sixth day of Christmas my parents gave to me: 8oz of delicious steak. On the seventh day of Christmas my universities gave to me: things to complete. On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: a virtual New Year's kiss. On the ninth day of Christmas my laptop gave to me: one finished play review. On the tenth day of Christmas my teacher gave to me: Antigone. On the eleventh day of Christmas my friends gave to me: a lively night at Michael's place. On the twelfth day of Christmas my brain gave to me: ...this. A tall, toasty-warm cup of vanilla hazelnut (with sprinkles of cinnamon) sits snugly in my chilled hands. An ode to joy, the speakers festively play. Traces of snow sleep on the frosted windowpanes as dolls of marzipan and sugar plum fairies waltz around. Their delicate toes touch the needles of the pine as they giggle a "hello". Taking in a deep breath, cold air tingles my nose. Mistletoe dangle over doors, ready for a sweet Christmas' kiss. Poinsettia and Holly find their place by the birch floor, a bright red and golden duo. Jingle Bells sing their song as passerbys join in. A jolly Santa Claus with his bulbous belly sways his hips in time, singing along with a little "Ho-Ho-Ho". Rudolph and his reindeer are prancing about above. Little men and women of gingerbread and sweets take a step outside their house to join the dance. As victims of Jack Frost wander in for a midnight snack, a gust of peppermint and cocoa fill the air. Stars shine brightly, awaiting the Saviour's birth. Here, in this cozy coffee shop, a capriccio is composed. A celebration, a party, a welcome, a haven. An ode to the new season.
In an old abandoned shack, a CRT television set from the 1990s rests, sitting rooted to a table of wood. The wind squeezes in through the windows, an unwelcome visitor.
BANG! From the depths of the black box comes a ghostly pale hand; palm smacked onto the lifeless screen as it tries to crawl its way out of the hell pits. As skeletal fingers grasp onto whatever they can take hold of, shrieks of pain and howls of despair make but sound amidst the silence. Dark winds prompt Reality to pick up the gun, lithe arms threatening suffocation as she moves. Pleads and supplication. Malicious taunts. All for nothing, but death. As Reality shuts down, we are stuck in a surreal state. L'amour prend patience,
(we who wait endlessly for "the one") L'amour rend service. (we who take our gifts and give) Il ne jalouse pas, (they who are thankful and blessed) Il ne se vante pas. Il ne s'enfle pas d'orgueil. (they who humble themselves) Il ne fait rien de malhonnête, (they who tell the truth) Il ne cherche pas son intérêt, (they who are selfless) Il ne s'emporte pas. Il n'entretient pas de rancune. (they who forgive and forget) Il ne se réjouit pas de ce qui est mal. (they who show compassion) Mais il trouve sa joie dans ce qui est vrai. Il excuse tout, Il fait confiance en tout. (we who take a strong stance) Il espère tout, Il endure tout. (we who pray for the betterment of the world) L'amour ne disparaît jamais. (Together, we will show the world what love is) -- 1 Corinthians 13 : 4-8 Way deep down in the depths of my heart, despair is kept in an antique bottle.
Residing within this cracked old bottle are tiny but prominent fragments, scraps, particles of sentiments. In the bottle they are kept, confined inside the small space, demanding to be let out. There is a lid, however, that clamps them shut. They are waiting for the day when the cap is safely withdrawn or for the bottle to finally explode from the demand to be let free. In this antique, rusting bottle, a set of varying sentiments are kept locked up, when all they live for is to be set free. Cold, Superior, Yearning, Happy, Grateful, Lazy, Possessive, Joy, Bliss, Kind, Blue, Melancholic, Empathetic, Pleasure, Dejected, Empty, Hatred, Ambitious, Sad, Loyal, Irritated, Insecure, Excited, Tired, Proud, Troubled. Conformity:
Alcohol:
Illegal substances. Alcohol. Conformity. Society. From the Morning Star above, comes down
With a presence as pure as an Angel's smile, A mesmerizing package of feathers and such To bring peace to the energies within. Perched on a snow-covered branch, it rests, Wonder and curiosity infuse the air. In fervid winters of blizzards and frost, A familiar song of cinereous and grey. Sonorous callings, Alluring sightings, Intriguing migrations To tell of the tales. At day's end, returns to be one With the family, together safe and sound. Come evening twilight when stars wake up, Snuggles into the warmth of the nest. -------------------- Doves: maternity, peace, feminine energies Mockingbird: finding your sole purpose, recognition of abilities Goose: call of the quest, travel Swallow: protection, warmth, home Dedicated to the Mama Bird of this nest. ♡ Light is no more.
Gone are the non-photo blue skies At one of sixteen thousand shutters. Ch-ckk. It echoes like a fading memory. Little by little, the popping colours are swept away By the ethereal arrival of warmer tones Of tawny, amber, and vermillion, Painting an acrylic autumn scene. It will not be long before swatches of Timberwolf, glaucous, and snow Are stitched together into a toasty-warm quilt. We welcome the serenity of the night. |
Authori am just an ordinary teenage girl. my name and whereabouts are unimportant. this is my story. all written work is original unless credited. Archives
June 2014
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