(Story) This Territory is Broken(Story) This Territory is Broken2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
D’ialia limped back through camp, her ears pinned back to her head. She had been out for longer than she’d intended. She’d only been in the healer’s den for a day, and though she was steady enough to be on her paws she’d been given strict instructions not to leave camp… for various reasons. She supposed there was wisdom in everything they’d told her—she needed time and rest to recover, if she met a threat she would be too weak to properly deal with it, her condition could suddenly take a turn for the worse and she’d be stranded somewhere in need of help. They made sense… but none of them really appealed to her. She didn’t like the attention she was getting—even when the Blue/Green-Shadow male had carried her back after her rather foolish encounter with the multicolored vine (or… snake, as she’d later learned it was called), they’d been crowding her.
All the King's Fools -Enter the Fool-All the King's Fools2 years ago in Drama More Like This
Pennies for the Fool, hark! Pennies for the Fool!
What hath come of those who serve the Fool?
Those most generous of men, the Fool’s men,
The babbity remnants of his great court.
Generous to thineselves, in that palace
a brothel to gorge both mouths of man,
mouths with want of ale and those too unwise
to know when the Feast makes more fools of them.
Fools serving fools, and they still serve more fools,
I am no more a fool than he, but alas,
He dressed himself a King. Ne’er a king comes
of one with a court full up with pea soup.
Now his soup he buys in pennies, and the
pennies for the Fool, pennies for the Fool,
Seem far less cruel a fate then no coin at all.
That Kings bring Fools alike, the ne’er-do-wells
may hath called their poor sire by his beard.
The king of Albion but a King of
Vegetables, his court those many beasts who
feast on his misfortune.
siren's abyssyour metallic voice drips off your tongue,siren's abyss2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
acid burning through my paper skin.
a siren song drifts though my mind;
i am a ship crafted from the daily news
being pulled in by your gravity,
sinking your raven colored abyss-eyes
and crashing into your rocky shores.
5:173:305:172 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A perfectly respectable time.
Not like 5:17.
No one waits for 5:17.
the time should not exist at all.
even ten-minute increments:
Those are perfectly respectable times
Those times are when the body
attached to mine
when it looks at me on its wrist.
It doesn't have a use for 5:17.
It despises 5:17
because that is when it either
accuses me of moving too fast
or of moving too slow.
I am perfectly dependable
(so long as it remembers to change me
once in autumn
once in spring).
Perhaps I will try, just once:
to switch my time to one more welcomed
when it looks at my face.
It will stop this...
With my obese, old-fashioned cousin
on the opposite wall,
I am worth the effort
of raising its wrist.
moonsongthe crescent moons bitten into my palmsmoonsong2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
break apart the hard worn lines written
there. a fortune teller told me
it was just a matter of time before my
universe crashed in on itself
and my stars ripped themselves apart.
your gray-sky-eyes swallowed me whole
and i fell down, down, down
while your piano key fingers played
my melody one last time.
DepartShe was still youngDepart2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when she switched lives
with the boy next door
They had grown close enough
that most sought one for the other
But closeness relies on proximity
and that dooming wall of distance
was more than physical separation
But closeness relies on dependability
and they grew comfortable in their separation
where the other had grown up
But closeness relies on harmony
and like the plates that shift slowly beneath the earth
they find they are once again strangers
HeroHis mind was young, His heart was oldHero2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
and cracked to bone like weathered stone
surviving still among the rain.
His eyes were hard and tired of day
but courage blazed too black and bright
rejecting riddles of His fate.
The fire in His arm was light,
but severed was He from his sword,
that swift-descending steel.
The marks they thrust upon His skin
reached icy fingers, lingering inside His spirit,
twisting whispers through His mind.
The lash they lay along His back
left trailing red and hanging flesh
which drained His will with cruel contempt.
He wept his silent tears.
The war that plagued this ruptured land
tore too my changing heart from mind.
They’d talked me to their sinful side
and justified this genocide.
His strength had tried their wily dance,
those wounds of indiscriminance—
my moral eye was blind.
As navy blue and silver glow
descended down to twilight ground,
Oppressors dreamed their twisted glee
for lash and pain and victory.
My shadow melted from the night—
SwingingUnder the motherly gaze of the moonSwinging2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in an old abandoned children's park,
the man swings. He is young
but not a child, slightly too old
to occupy the playground
but not old enough that
his presence would be a threat
in the daylight.
He swings peacefully,
his toes skimming the ground
to make twin furrows
in the wood chips.
His eyes gaze at the shimmer
of the moon,
head tilted up so its glow
illuminates his face.
This is his escape
from the anger at home
four blocks away,
from the drinking
This is his healing,
where he recaptures the innocence
he lost so soon after birth
and where his mind gives him peace
from his tormentors.
He has always found his answers
in this place,
and it has not failed him this time.
Pushed by the light navy breeze,
he swings from the rope
tied to the monkey bars
and to his still, swollen throat.
This is his escape.
Good IntentionsI open your mind, like unrolling a crêpe,Good Intentions2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
to see if there’s anything rotten inside.
I’ve sampled some chocolate, some ice cream and cake
and learned to be cautious of what people hide.
Sometimes when searching in somebody’s mind,
It’s like lifting a rock to show maggots maturing;
revealing the worms and the beatles inside
all waiting in darkness, writhing and squirming.
But crêpes are the best of the minds, did you know?
The good kind of mind, the kind I can trust.
It makes me feel guilty (and rightfully so!)
To think that that my reading is all that’s unjust.
I open your mind and I think, what is this?
You’re trying to hide it, but still I can see
a thought I had hoped but I’ve always dismissed--
I’m falling for you, and you’re thinking of me!
I’m happy to see, when I look into you
that you’re just as sweet on the inside, too.