sumarlegur's avatar
keep it simple.
307 Watchers51.2K Page Views239 Deviations
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Monsaraz
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The Fountain
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The dust of the withering
Pay no mind to the vacant serenades of empty verses and the foam of our thirst bubbling from the slumbers of all nothings; stray, for neither I dare spider my way down your spine when they, the blind, are the ones who swim betwixt my lover's flesh and bone. And when the ones who've already departed walk in and out of the city's womb just so it can heave and spit them about like the meandering mothers of derelict children, when the windows of the night spread their legs with the pulse of stillborn summers and marble beds, let your wings scatter like the whiskers of hallowed trees gnawing away at your marrow for the taste of its
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Mother of moth
Kites of yesterdays hum along the portraits of your black rain within a hair's breadth of frostbite; the clocks, slightly askew, kiss hours upon our scalps with malice aforethought and, in the distance, a balloon perfumes our child's dreams, squeaking like a cat at the weight of his slender hands, sowing the breath of a smile upon your lips: I would rather drown than watch you sink and be your anchor in the deep, you said, and once your lids fell shut like veils of wishes, years turned to golden dust in the calendars of past lives. You will remember, my dear, I sang-- as will I.
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Nebulae
Paper-winged moths scatter along every word of you as my breath puddles at your waist: here I stand, the tyrant, the paladin, firefly-lipped underneath the hooves of a thunderstorm. Ask me to stay, I shimmer, catacombs for smiles, the throat of a thousand dying suns billowing in my veins: Dusk arrives ahead of time and I sweep it under the rug. Listen: the pitter-patter of leaves slapping against the soles of our feet, a harp of shadows and the hiss of a raven's flight reverberating along the windowpanes; My dreams are stallions and you ran out of seasons to whisper away.
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Hourglass
I wasn't meant to fly, you know, she sings with a frown, Winter clinging to her bones and swollen veins-- and I never asked to be hurled onto the wind's path like this. All of this dust that we gather in our chaliced hands means nothing, nothing at all; I am but the bitter limb of an Autumned tree and the withered child of a stubborn moon; it was always thus and always thus will be. I tug at her strings with rain-harp hands and shiver, shiver, shiver: My wings are but silhouettes; bitter, bitter silhouettes, you see; I've watched birds fly like sonatas and always wondered how they do it. I wish not to fly, though, I
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Tune of the alps
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680
Fire and Smoke 2
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this man's game
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and that's how summer passed.
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Feb 28
Portugal
Deviant for 13 years

Comments1.2K

anonymous's avatar
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mecengineer's avatar
Happy Birthday Joao!
sumarlegur's avatar
sumarlegurHobbyist General Artist
thank you my friend!
Phototubby's avatar
PhototubbyHobbyist Photographer
:iconredshirtthnxleft-plz::iconredshirtthnxfav2-plz::iconredshirtthnxrght-plz:
MaryStone's avatar
MaryStoneProfessional Writer
Parabéns muiiiito atrasados! 
sumarlegur's avatar
sumarlegurHobbyist General Artist
better late than never, obrigado : )
mecengineer's avatar
Happy Birthday Joao!
sumarlegur's avatar
sumarlegurHobbyist General Artist
Thank you, my friend :)