The CityThe CityElektra and time-twister, hear my distant cryout of past beneath Apocalypse waste sand of a land which almost diedof spirit-traps and ancient vampirestransmogrifying life to bitterness.Of a world where precious loveis sold for plastic and piss.The streets flow with human flesh, churning in black ichor oildrowning in sludge, choking on burning ragsSome of our brightest work in the streets- paladins covered in filth, sifting through garbagefor lost love lights- healers and caretakers of refugees cast as defects fromtowering factory mechanical spiresThe City burns a crown of a billion lights, each a brilliant starof artificial brightAll we have here is this little lamp --its cold outside beyond its pale glowThe City has heat without seeming end, boiling energy from the meat thatlives within.Thousands die in the City every night- hearts gorged on young blood, spirits burnt with Hellfire,drunk with the glory of impossible suicideIn vain they offer themselves a
untitled :-faith and love?-:searching is pointlessfate shall bequeth you true lovejust open your eyes
Autumn Snowwill anyone wish to share my heartbefore the icy death of winter?it is already late to wonderit is autumnand have i just feltthe first snowflakesfall upon my brow?
cycleFox eyes shineA glimpse into the darkPools reflect sparks unseenMemories distantof closeness and meldingThrough the veil of timeAre you calling for me?Wind rattles the leaves,Pulls the dark cloak about the sky,Stars and moon dissolve into black velvet.Wet dew blankets the forest,joining life with mist's night chill.Lightning cracks the atmosphereAwoken drenched in icy sweatand saguine warmth.A mirror shines amidst nothingness --a window to the world outside,or self-reflecting infinite oblivion?Ensconced in darkness,a pale flame smeared with ink.Glass shattering on the floor,falling deep in water,passion explodingin harsh white light.Blazing corona burning highpermeates,cleansing all in fire.Sparks escape into vacuum,damping to ash as they're blown,carried from the tempeston currents like cold metal.Floating in auroral etheramongst prismatic thoughtpainted with brushesimmersed in every perfect moment.Images gone...eventshalf remembered...only nostalgi
a dead twiga lone brittle twiglongs to be snapped in the windthere is not a breeze
House Vey~House Vey~I was working as a tax agent for the British government in the Year ofOur Lord 1999. It was then that my supervisor approachedme regarding the matter of House Vey.``It has come to my attention,'' he said, ``that there is a real estate thathas been evading tax law for centuries. It isn't on land-survey maps andhas only come to my attention due to its recent acquisition ofmaterials from certain sources.''He handed me a file that described several transactions in metalsand rare minerals by a House of Vey, location given.``I want you to go down there,'' he continued, ``And make the bookssquare.''So I did what he told me. Not that it was easy. There was no road thatled to the House of Vey (a house left off of the British Royals' list).Instead, I took my auto as far as dirt roads allowed. Then, equippedwith a hand-written map superimposed on the GPS grid, I wanderedthrough the British countryside in search of t
reflectionssparks on the watersparks into the windmirrors facing in darkness