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Showing posts from January, 2019

An Artist's Touch

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An Artist's Touch 
  How lovely she be, her hair curling beneath her blossoming hat. The gentle kempt design of each strain. The dark glow against the morning sun as her dark hair rests upon her shoulders. Dangling like threads of silk. Divine I say, absolutely divine.

  Her eyes, their complexion spill with the delicacy of the soul. Spilling like colors of the morning sun against a glistening sea. I can feel her presence even when we are distant in stare. Their vibrant collection of life, how much she has lived in such little space, such short time.

  My brush, carefully stroking against the canvass with passion. Allowing her existence to become the reality of this art. Her art, her, she is everything. How wild her curves play against the contrast of this world. Nature bares much, but there is no competition to be had.

 For even nature shows she'd be foolish to rival such beauty. Her skin, smooth as the melting light from an evening moon. Her jaw, lined like the sculptures of…

A Soldiers Release

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A Soldiers Release 
 Drunk from last night, Sergeant Calcus wakes with incoherence to a rumbling just outside his room. He stumbles from his bed and rests his drunken body against the window that faces outside. He looks, his eyes wavering back and forth.

 Looking down into the empty street and there he sees something. At first, it is a blur, his mind is not yet fully awake from his stupor. He then drops an empty bottle of whiskey he had been clenching  and uses his hands to block the streets lights reflecting on the window.
  He places his eyes beneath his hands and looks further in detail what he is looking at. Adjusting his sight, he finally sees what it is. Its is a helicopter, a helicopter had landed in the empty street just on the other side of his room. 
Confused, he looks at his watch, it reads, O-Three-hundred hours. He looks back at the chopper and watches with intrigue. As he watches he sees two men exit. Both wearing pilot uniforms but they do not remove their helmets. 
  T…

Mirror Hill

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  Mirror Hill 
  Today, I take myself to the edge of Mirror Hill. It has been a long day, a day where I feel lost, dropped from my path and left to wander with idle wrath. Fighting to keep myself from breaking into million different parts. Only to end up as a broken as a doll on a shelf praying for the aging girl to pick me up.

But times change and I must accept that I am no longer the hot toy of today. So I must work, change, find myself a better me, a better way, adapt to that which will give me praise.

 And here I am, ink and page, sitting atop Mirror Hill, where it leaps to the bounds of the clouds and is found to be the place of quiet sounds and inspiration. Do not get mixed that this shall be thoughts of rhymes, I merely took trap to my own often annoying scheme to rhyme.

  So let us begin, let us drive our eyes into the thoughts of my aging bones and fading mind.

  There secretes this bitter taste of lemons from this open view. I sit with ghosts in my hands as I hang them from …

A Spanish Paradise

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A Spanish Paradise 
It is a start, a new seeking of life. Her heart has never been the same and how badly she wants it back. How dearly she wants to caress the moon with her lips and the sun her heart. Delicately letting her soul unfold like the blooming of a flower beneath the cool rain of spring.

  And so Melody takes to the skies with a one way ticket to her paradise. To a small town in South America where she had gone once before as a child, visiting her grandfather. She remembers the buildings, how warm their sandstone colors were.

  How elegantly the sun danced off the artistry of the horizon against the mountains covered in the lushness of nature. How beautifully the glow of the moon glittered upon the stone streets after a rainy day.

  So much beauty, so much history in each curve, each arch, each stone. Everything is painted so well in her memory. She looks down from her seat through the window of the plane and sees the cascade of flourishing hills. The landscape of green kis…

Lady Isabella and The Violinist

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 Lady Isabella and The Violinist 

 I see her, her blues eyes casting moonbeams through the dark crowd. I can't resist, her allure is, magnificent. She is a baroque among this shadowed audience, but they are blind to her beauty, her light. Unaware of her elegant presence as she glows between the mingling of others.

 Her lips stained with crimson and her pale skin blush with rosy cheeks. I can feel her from across the room as one feels their own hear. I am enraptured by her, the moment I found her, saw her. Infatuated with this mystery woman of refinement, I make my way through the crowd with careful urgency while holding my drink.

  I see she holds no champagne of her own, a waitress is near by as I cross through the blind audience. I grasp a full glass from the waitress tray with ease, a fluid confidence takes me. Maybe it is the melody of the piano that softly plays among the mumbling of the party.

 Or maybe, it is her. Maybe she knows she has enthralled me with her eyes, with th…

A Painters Tragedy

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 A Painters Tragedy
  Mia was an "outcast,"  an individual of different ideas and perception of life. She wore clothes that never accentuated her figure. Most were dark, baggy, and plain. She never took time to draw attention to herself. Yet attention would find her, laughter from the snarky jocks would round themselves about her.

  Prodding fun of her looks, her choice of clothing and how she spoke. She spoke shyly, stuttering with unprecedented anxiety. Her eyes would dart wildly as tears would silently fall during the pressures of unwanted attention.

 Their laughter would echo throughout the day in her head. Over and over she would replay the horrible moments between her and the rude abilities of bullies. Every morning she would do her best to dart to her classroom.

 Scrunching herself into the smallest shape possible while hugging her books tightly. But not matter how small she made herself, no matter how dark of clothes she wore, even in the the darkest of mornings.

  T…

A Wanderer

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 A Wanderer

 Guitar in hand and nowhere to go. This dusty road is barren and the sun is high. My body aches to rest but I am a wanderer of my music. I am in search of my muse, the siren that will call me. Leading me to my death, but not before exposing me bare to the wonders that hide within me.

  My feet are sore, my boots are wearing thin. My beard is holding this dusty air and my throat is parched. It has been three days and I know not which way I should walk. Each path has appeared similar, dark, dusty, and desolate.

  There have been no signs, no lights to signal a turn, a stop, or a cautious disposition. What have I done? Am I but another poor musician taken to the madness of his music? Never to find the glory that will give breath, life to my words, my songs?

  Wait, what is that, that in the distance, between the waving waves of heat and the gritty plumes of dust? I see a light, a beaming light of red  in the distance. It is faint, but it must be reality, it must be real. It s…

Gorgkick The Coward

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Gorgkick The Coward
  Gorkick, the infamous writer of historical literature, walks down our muddied roads with his embellished belly. He walks as if he were a pig on two legs. His over sized mustache tickles his lower lip. Causing him to constantly wiggle his mouth from irritation. They say he grew it to help hide his hideous smile.

  But I say he grows it to feel more like a man. For he is cowardly in his approach to the world before him. Sadly, he is our only hope of change and freedom. But his cowarding approval of himself leaves him wavering to the whim of our iron fist leader.

  His eyes sink into his fat face like marbles pressed into fresh clay. They linger about our surroundings as we watch him walk. Investigating our village with little scrutiny as soldiers stand erect with weapons in hand. Following him like watch dogs, panting at the sight of our impoverished presence.

  I follow carefully from a short distance. Keeping my presence hidden from the soldiers. Watching him, I …

A Father's Dream

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 A Father's Dream 
  I could have quit and all would have been fine. No one would of said I was less than I was. Many told me I should quit, I should step back. That everything I am doing will only end up in flames. Maybe it could have, but it didn't.

  For each day I rose before the sun and held my children in my arms. I would look to my wife as I woke. Her beautiful complexion, her gorgeous aurora floating about the room. I could hear her heart beating gently in the calmness of every morning.

  And when I look to them, when I look to my children, my wife, I think of all the wonder they have given me. I think of everything my wife has sacrificed to keep our children smiling, laughing as I step out the door every morning taking the risk to change it all.

  I think of the terrible times we have had, the times food was more scarce than fuel. I think about the times when we argued over the simplest things because we would rather ignore the dragon and leave it to grow.  Slowly tak…

A Pocket Flower

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A Pocket Flower

  I breathe upon the cold morning glass as I look out into the open plains of the country. And with my finger I draw a heart splitting in two, it quickly fades. I look back out into the world and design a new one.

  I let my senses roam wild as imagination rushes from my head like water. Flooding my view with bountiful ideas. I see titans clashing, gods fighting, I see mysteries lingering in the lonely mist. I see monsters creeping from the distant moons and music flow gently from the darkened woods.

  I watch golden leaves fall as the sun begins to rise. The soft tone of frozen grass begins to sparkle. I see birds thrust from their nests and chirp to the vast outreaches of nature. I am overwhelmed by what I see, and I smile.

  I breathe again upon the cold morning glass. But this time, I draw a single heart held together. I let it fade as the last, but this time I breathe upon the glass once more. I observe the heart I drew with much thought, much intrigue.

  I ask my…

The Choice of History

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The Choice of History 
There lies an entrance, a red door to a place far different from any other. Where magic is real, time is alive, but love is dead. It is a place of desolation and pain. A place where blood flows from rivers and mountains are built of death.

  It is a place so horrible, the door has been sealed shut. Locked for all eternity, a place once flourished with bountiful colors, a place where ever growing thoughts and wonder once pranced like dear through meadows. But like anything, there comes a time of destruction.

  Where city floors were leveled, trees were chopped, and hope was a lost. A time when everything ran its course and something new must take its place. A time when death lives and life is but a drip of water falling from a distant cloud.

  But not all is lost, though the entrance is locked, hidden from the eyes. It can be found by the heart, by the vision of faith. It can be brought from its slumbering chambers if only one dares to find it. To leap in with a …