m
literature

midnight's calling

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By prettyflour   |   Watch
14 0 124 (1 Today)
Published: October 16, 2018

They yearned to dance in the moonlight,
to chant their benedictions in the glorious dark,
to worship fire and sky and earth’s matriarch.

Puritans descended, without a drop of insight,
preaching hate, slander and fear
and hunted so-called demons into eternal midnight. 

Remembered in Salem, a witches hallmark,
they yearned to dance in the moonlight.

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© 2018 - 2019 prettyflour
:iconprojectdfc:'s Octacula

The Octain or Octain Refrain is a form developed by Luke Prater. It consists of eight lines structured Abb, aca, bA.
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For art's sake.
The pen is no great tormentor, compelled to press airy word and sluggish feeling against the paper. What must be expelled from your heart, what hurt keeps you from healing? Need a photograph exist as any more than an I was here, a memory kept close? How desperately must you implore the highhanded Muse who has caged your love, trapped what belongs to you? Draw inspiration from your heart-kept well without asking first; write until you slake your thirst.
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My mother taught me how to fall in love with strangers so before I met you we were already halfway to the stars, but as soon as you spoke I was lost. Loving strangers is easy, there are no secrets and no hard conversations, there are no wounds to salve, no scars to explain. The oddities, they rest as quirks on the skin of casual observation: a light flip of the hair, a habit of counting exits, the planning of escape routes masked as musical fingers playing sonatas in empty air, a symphony of fears tucked under quiet smiles at gurgling infants. Falling in love with an acquaintance, a friend, a man like you, is new to me. And whe
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there is no such thing as a sleeping poet
i know wandering and weeping poets with hardened eyes but gentle souls, and i know happy poets who took the world and gave it a heart, some broken poets who healed up well, some who don't want me to write their definition for them, but you can only hold on to so many words with two hands. my fingers swear i would never be sleeping; i am dreaming, remembering, or seeming to play dead. the poets who have healed sometimes check on their beds back in hell, the ones who always smile are those who cry the most, and the ones who point a pen at me and mouth don't you tell are dying for someone to speak. i am a math-poet. a science-poet. a pianist-
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