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The Desert RoseWith eyes the colour of the cloudless sky,
And hair like mighty dunes of sand,
She moves elusively and yet with such grace;
It is a dangerous sort of beauty.
Her eyes snap sharply into mine,
Whenever my gaze lingers a second too long.
Her stare traps mine own in place and so
I stay there frozen with fear... or is it awe?
I would love to tell myself
That such a flower is not meant for me,
But I would only be lying to myself
Because I love the thrill of the game.
I truly do admire her spirit,
Like the Great Pyramids it stands tall,
Against all odds,
Never bending an inch...
A fascination overwhelms me even now.
Can I even hope to keep up,
Or has the game already been won
By the Desert Rose?
Ocean-wide, Pocket-sizeShe is the perverse whispering of phobias
Shadowing each and every action I take
The capricious heat of the moment decisions
That I almost always come to regret
She is the gathering of tumultuous thunderstorms
Knowing she can bolt my world into Cimmerian
The tattooing of molten mantras on skin
That pool me from drowning in burns
She is a mouthful of psalms and lucid eulogies
Spreading her disease quicker than cancer
She is ocean-wide
She is pocket-size
I rebuke her- mountains and thread counts at a time
on a summer day long ago,
your toes scribbled a couple
of words in the sand
soon, the tide had claimed
them, giving us back a blank
palimpsest (which we later
adorned with imprints of
each lonely night i remember
what had been written there -
but by dawn, i forget it again
draped in salty air, i watch you
sleep as my fingers graze your skin
but when i kiss the glistening
drops on your shoulder blades,
i cannot decide whether i am
tasting sea-water, or perspiration,
or molten snow
maybe only by loving the sea
we come to understand
how can so many layers of
delight and temperance interweave,
strain against each other,
binding us with flames
in the algae's algebra
VirusA virus lingers in my veins
Makes my nose itch from time to time
An unnoticed plague
I can't rid myself of
And as I try to fall asleep
You permeate my thoughts
I never know when it will hit
Coughing up dust throughout the night
But I would be lying
If I said it wasn't a pleasant itch
The dust of nostalgia
Flying through clouds and soaring over it all
Every need to scratch my nose
Wishing your loving hands
Could wipe the year old tears from my eyes
They always come back
You always come back
But I hold out my hand
And you are never there
I need to escape
This tragically beautiful sickness
This reoccurring illness
That rattles my bones
Tingling skin that craves your embrace
But insides hollow and lost
If I'm to be happy
And shrouded in dust
I have to
Snow White SyndromeI seem to have forgotten the sound of my own heartbeat
Splitting apart my limbs I've found the source of my insanity
Coiled around veins and arteries
Star dust and a lazy man’s drug
Has put me to sleep under fictitious pretenses
Of forbidden apples and two faced prince charming’s
The Man with a RoseHappy is he, the man with a rose.
Blooming deep red, with an ambient glow.
Loving is he, the man with a rose.
The aroma lifting him off his toes.
Excited is he, the man with a rose.
Giving it to his love, and his feelings, she knows.
Startled is he, the man with a rose.
Waking from a dream. He froze.
Bleak is he, the man with a rose.
Flower, six feet under, it goes.
Lament's LessonWe are the shrouded generation
Our season is salted and buried beside dead Oaks
The roots will not take, not here
The sky will remain overcast, in the old photos
Sun and moon and stars become as myth
As we chew ourselves to the quick
lamenting the losses that pile up like cord wood in our hearts
There is nobody for whom that metaphorical bell shall toll
None remain standing that have a fist to raise
Ideals become the new currency of men
Clothing is optional, in this wasteland of innocence lost
Thrice denied, we beseech notions bereft of purity
Decay has never had a finer stage than this moment, here and now
The apple is not rotten through until after we partake a bite
As snow turns to ash
As seasons bleed one unto another
The songs of the young become the soundtracks to the elderly
Echoes reverberate throughout the kingdoms of our sodden dreams
Lament's lesson is learned even as it is forgotten
Parenting for Sex AddictsThe half-day.
We are not those folks that need an occasion to try. And that’s what they call it, too. Trying. As if the very idea of it is taxing. It’s not taxing and we are not those people.
No. We do not go by some magical calendar. Schedules aren’t really our thing in general. That’d be too organized. Too stuffy. Too… I don’t know… too planned. And we’re not the type of people whom plan.
If we could—plan—our lives would be much different. I think. It’s hard to say because this is how we’ve always been.
Our very togetherness is a result of impulse. I’m almost certain that the amount of time it took us to decide to move in together was significantly shorter than the amount of time it took us to remember each other’s names. We might have had our first conversation moments after that first… what I mean to say is we didn’t plan. Because planning would have been much t
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More