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moth

Ever the moth, I am drawn to the flame.
Fluttering about notions
Never quite landing
Until that brilliant moment
When my wings are burned off
And I plummet to my death.
On my way down
through the dark
I think to myself,
"The light was worth the burn."

Of Frost And Ardor

   With frost hanging in the air and inclement winter weather moving into the valley, I post yet another old piece, mildly revised and cleaned up, for the reading pleasure of any who will it. This is titled Of Frost And Ardor and sums a feeling still relevant in this period.

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Frau Vetr

A brief fairytale of ice, love, and immortality.

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Missing Personality Report

raven   She’s so succinctly symbolic of the period of my life I often vie for, I can’t help but feel some shadow of love, flickering in the wind of nostalgia. That time, I think back on, there was something I am missing now; some part of me that was prominent then, I feel missing from me very deeply. She was the framework by which I crafted what I desire.

   Believe me, I’ve tried looking for her. I wonder, at times, where her life has taken her. Very likely we are now two very different people. Life does that.

   It should be as easy as saying, ‘Well, this is what I am going to be.’ but it requires more than mere thought. It requires action. Living as the person you wish to be. And you cannot just try and live as any old person you wish to be, because that would be a lie. You must live as the best possible version of yourself that you can be. Always, we must strive to be the best us that we can be.

When Leaves Turn To Fire…

When the leaves turn to fire, I come enthralled by desire. Autumn is the season which births my passion. I writhe in the death throes of the year. Days shorten and cool. Nights carry the final brilliant climax of life on the air.

This is a season of fire. Whose flame do I see burning around me? I have your scent. I hunger. Howl to the moon with me and let go of restraint. Your blood is on my hands and I have your scent.

Pit

Feeling low in this valley again. I only love it here when I forget there exists. Shit.

Theatre of Disease

The Theatre of Disease presents Pathosis, consisting of two acts in desolate sonnet.

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By The Tides

Written just before 2200 EDT. Excuse my sap.

I look back
Into the shadow
Cast by my thoughts
And see, behind reflected light,
The currents I ride.
My mind, my will
Flows with the rivers of life.
Where do they carry me?
Where do I go?

I see, in the distance, a light.
A lone, hooded figure holds a lantern,
Waiting to call me in to shore.

The tide has not yet come in.
We both know this at a glance.
In realization, she drops her hood.
I shall not forget her face,
For when the tide comes in,
I will take root on her shores.

Within her is the most divine
Spirit of manifestation.
In her breath, I breathe.
In her eyes, I see.
In her words, I speak.
In her light, I shine.
By her heartbeat, do I dance.
In her embrace, I dream.

I dream.
I dream of the unification
Of that which was not meant to be divided.
I dream of the swirling chaos
That lies unseen.
I dream of swimming the mighty currents
Of the living continuum most sacred
As one with her.

She is mistress to manifestation.
Her words are crafted to shuddering perfection.
Her colours are lain out in the most passionate sequences.
She holds light unseen to the common eye.
That which she creates
Is wonder and abundance.
I am drawn ever further in to her being.

She is my harbour.
She is my breath.
She is my pulse.
She is the meaning of longing.

But the tide has not yet come in.
And we both know this at a glance.
With shared realization, we drop our hoods.
We shall not forget our faces,
For when the tide comes in,
We will become more than the sum of our parts.

When the tide comes in,
The unseen force of all living things
Will shiver.

The tide will not come in today;
We know this.
But it could be tomorrow.
It will be tomorrow.