The Falcon and the Crow by LaurenIpsome, literature
The Falcon and the Crow
You led me on, like there was a thing we called tomorrow and the wind called your name; peregrine. Now I'm burning sage, in the hopes my footprints forget the way. One day I’ll drink well In someone else’s eyes And you Will ache For the taste of my lips The curve of my hips And the way that I Chased the demons from your room And cleared the way With sage and thorne For something brighter But you preferred the dark; Brother owl. Forgive me ere I sin, And carve these words upon mine skin; I am the bitter on your lips, As to your soul I was your kin, Alas… alas… the way of the wind… And sky… I’ll see you then, Upon the other side. I hate to say… Though there is no better way… Drink well, darling. But for the blight of my eye. I’d have been good to you, For you, With you, But alas… the sky…
Preface: Before we begin... by LaurenIpsome, literature
Preface: Before we begin...
She hummed idly and ran the comb down the length of her long, silver falx of hair as she looked out at the sea from her bower suite. The day was as grey as any, cloaked the bank in a blanket of fog and wet, cold as the crypt from which she had come. She hummed and moved the comb past her Elfin-pointed ear, past her shoulder, and down and down to her hip and further still… Oh, but he had been such a comely lad, wild and free. And but oh, the poetry from his lips was sweet as the honey-mead they had supped, and such lips as she had kissed… “I so want to be in love…” she had cried, wrapped in the strength of his arm, the warmth of his embrace, and the trace of lips upon her throat, “with thee…” “Then be in love,” said the wild lad who smelled of the dry grasses of summer and wide plains, “with me.” The Elfin lass sighed, all breath and wind as his heat swept her from the sea, and they fell into the wildflowers with the stars o’erhead but none such as to have known how they had slipped
Accustomed to the alone, with Space and Time my reluctant companions. Yet, they lie together like lovers between sheets they smile, and share secrets to which I am not privy. Fiction; I would retell our story, in sweeping fantasy of how you returned and vowed love’s greatest gift, a kiss to rival the ages. But lo… how I have learned instead that my strength truly shines instead in the Tragedies.
Oh Sweet Nightmare, Mine by LaurenIpsome, literature
Oh Sweet Nightmare, Mine
Spent my night Dreaming of you Moments of sweet And intimate movements Rolling like tides And the way you swept in And took my soul away With a long pull out to sea And drowned in your siren’s kiss And your kraken’s tentacles With teeth that left holes in my heart To sieve…saline and blood… And the crabs will dine well on my flesh As bubbles leak from my lips And float…away…toward the sun As my vision goes dark and Cold in the depths of solitary Where blind sharks gorge; Refuse and waste, The dead and the dis-eased… Decay. I can only hope, To rot And inflate with gasses That will lift me From your drowning Toward the light And then I’ll float And the sharks can feed.
Some days, you get the blues, (for no particular reason) merely to quantify your happiness levels on the other days. I wish I didn't think on you (in the ways of missing limbs and tooth-aches) in spinning conjunctions of whimsy where you were clean and I was less (in the) dark. You didn’t have to look me in the eye, Didn’t have to lie, In the could have, should have, would have way Of every other sidewinder who slithers And slips from one tongue to another. You could have stayed… Your self-preservation tactics Outweighed my means. “Could you be any more perfect?” I cocked a half-knowing grin. “Apparently,” I said in the denseness of solitary. My knowing mind outweighs my staying grace. Should I have clipped your wings, falcon? Your jesses are the ties that bind me now. My heart was set to take flight, unhooded, And free at last, I would have cried. These hallow bones are broken. My keen-eyed gaze; stayed. “I’ll never forget you.” But oh… I wish you would… I hear you thinking on
DAILY DEVIATION: Minding Sutures by LaurenIpsome, literature
DAILY DEVIATION: Minding Sutures
If I described
you decimated my heart,
could you even
I wonder, as I sit with trembling hands
and a cup of coffee,
gently pulling at a thread,
suture to close the gap in my wrist,
strings to make my marionette hands
move through the day
to some other tune.
I am always cold
so I lay in the sun
like the snake I am.
You weren’t the first, no,
but you will be the last.
There is nothing left of this stone
but a handful of sand.
my mind’s eye still sees your smile,
kind; oh the lie!
I recall vows; broken.
Sweet nothings; only a token.
I only dance by necessity,
pulling on ch
Hook taps the pencil nervously on the paper, his hair is a frazzled mop on top of his head and he sighs dramatically.
Foil enters and looks over his shoulder at the page, but aside from a few nicks from the pencil’s tip, there’s only smudge-marks from the completely used eraser on the pencil’s end. Foil takes a seat beside Hook and grips his shoulder in camaraderie, “What’s wrong?”
Hook sighs again and shakes his head. “Hasn’t anyone seen Muse? Seriously, I’ve got nothing here,” he taps the paper with the pencil and leaves more tick marks on the otherwise mangled but empty page.
DAILY DEVIATION: Cast Off Characters by LaurenIpsome, literature
DAILY DEVIATION: Cast Off Characters
Muse sat at the head of the table, looking distinctly “in charge” and immaculate in her sharp, high-end business attire, complete with stockings and heels. She had her nails done to perfection and was wagging her infamous red pen between her fingers and a smug grin on her lips. This did not bode well for any of us as I watched them file into the board room for the meeting.
Structure was shuffling papers and muttering something about everyone getting their coffee and finding their seats, acting as if he had everything under control, but by the look on Muse’s face, I knew from experience, this was going to be dicey.
DAILY DEVIATION: The Old Fisherman by LaurenIpsome, literature
DAILY DEVIATION: The Old Fisherman
The old fisherman pulled in his nets as chill salt wind stung chapped lips. There were but few small fish to feed his thin, weathered frame. It mattered not. He bore no wife at home, no child at hearth to roam. He was alone.
The fog hid land from view as he pulled at the water-sodden oars, but this too mattered not to the old fisherman. He knew the way home. The fish he would roast o’er stone and fire with potatoes he’d grown in soil of his small plot. A lob of pork-fat would make his feast, and within his gut did growl at the very thought. He whistled a tune to cover the sound as he lent his back to plow the waves.