Shadows Through The Glass by vikingjon, literature
Literature
Shadows Through The Glass
Sifting through these photographs
Like looking through the safety-glass
Of a favoured old car
Rolling backwards through the days
And I wonder where you are
Around the bends of months and years
Rain splatters, splashes, slides
On the glass, the snow falls
The windows cloud and clear of fog
Through these windows I've seen it all
Down back-road dreams and tree-lined streams
I chase your wanton shadow
And once I saw you sitting
With your foot dipped in the shallow
Where the damselflies were flitting
Now naught but mayflies linger
by the pools of wander-streams
Floating by your toe-ripples
Where the quick-fish get their fill
Declaration of victory. by HowToBeRadiant, literature
Literature
Declaration of victory.
You have lost.
You challenged a nation,
and we accepted.
You send one man,
we send ten.
You are the fools.
You challenged a nation,
a might you can not comprehend;
you feel pain but we haven't started yet.
You strike our hearts,
we just cringe.
We strike your heart,
you fall.
You lost before you began,
for you challenged a nation,
and it accepted.
Apologizing to a corpse
to make myself feel better
for not being there for you.
Another selfish act on my part.
Even in death, I use you
to make myself feel better
Now you haunt me
To remind me of my mistakes.
I'm not going up to the old house tonight.
It's a warm Autumn evening and the breeze blows my hair,
It sweeps through the oaks and chrysanthemums there,
Throwing sparkling reflections of the day's dying light,
Shimm'ry memories of dances we once loved to share;
But today I feel sorrow and the feeling's not right,
To go up to our household on Hallowe'en night,
Where your eyes shine like embers from the corners of rooms,
Where your singing lilts, echoing, from the bedchamber's gloom.
Where I oft hear your footfalls, ever so slight.
Many a night would I welcome your comfort,
But not tonight.
Tonight my insides contort.
If not for th
Haze, rolls over the eyes
Red tint, is how i see the world
It pumps, with my slow beating heart
Rage, burns through the veins
Trashing, burning, screaming, is what i feel
Time slows, to a pinpoint standstill
Thumping Booming, crashes into my ears
Static, vibrations i hear in my monotone ears
Mind screams, peircing everything
Ash, fills my mouth
Chared brick, i taste
Dry, as a desert sand
Heart, stops
Utter, complete silence
No ovation, for this kill
Oh Heart,
You race so slowly,
Pound so meekly,
And live fearfully.
Oh Heart,
There is a quick, sick, quiet tune
Struggling for breath and dying for room.
Oh Heart,
To the shadows, in fear I hum
The same song that you Drum-
Drum-Drum.
Oh Heart,
Your beat was a flutter
And your voice was a stutter.
Oh Heart,
If there was only a different rhythm
To liberate your chained attention,
Shackled tightly to the pulse of mayhem...
Oh Heart,
Forgive me, this could have ended long ago,
Your exhausted ache and this wretched situation,
Had I picked up a phone or switched the station on the radio.
Born with wanderlust
imprinted on her
beautiful star chart,
like the freckles that
dot her sun-soaked skin;
her heart's wild as the
red tangles, snarled
like brambles, coiled
like crowns, twisting through
her autumnal hair.
No one can convince
her, she will always
willfully believe
that Wonderland lies
beyond the next bend,
no matter what road
her capricious and
come-what-may nature
should choose to travel.
They say she is fey,
and she believes them.
She dreams of faeries
that take her away,
(it's the second star
to the right and straight
on till morning) to
fly on wings that Fate
forgot to give her.
The Artist as Thunderstorm by vikingjon, literature
Literature
The Artist as Thunderstorm
"In this picture the artist is saying,
'Elephants are grey because they love thunderstorms,'
Here the artist, in painting a storm,
Has, in fact,
Painted an elephant.
It is well known by some,
And thought well of by others,
That the artist may have gone to a circus,
Perhaps in this lifetime, or that
Of an elephant,
And was impressed,
As we can see by the numerous trunks,
In this painting,
Of trees, grey,
Like a storm,
The artist's inner elephant, as it were,
As it searches among its kind for these green leaves
Which elephants also love, and eat.
Is this why the leaves are green
And juxtaposed so closely to the trunks?
P