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...sometimes...
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O
On words unspoken or unread
Words echo into the space - waves of scattered particles spreading into infinity. They last but moments then dissipate- never disappearing but growing further and further apart; they shrink smaller, smaller, as they spread longer, longer. Words sink deep into paper. Lines of ink staining fibre. They are unmoving- lasting until the paper itself is destroyed (possibly until the end of time). What are spoken words if nobody hears? What are written words if nobody reads? And words read from a page to an empty space-                                                                    are these doubly useless? Yet if space is never empty...  
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I
I, The Sober Fool
My Beloved speaks profundities      and pays dues not His own- while I, the sober fool,      stumble falsely drunk. Though His wine warms my heart      and sweetly stains my lips, it is not potent in my veins-      I am not subject to it's dance. I drink too little, too less      for the drunkard I claim to be.
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D
DONT WALK
I am the kind of man who will stand at the DONT WALK sign on an empty intersection of an abandoned town. I am the kind of man Who is flattened by a renegade road train on the very same intersection if I do decide to walk. Yet. I am becoming the kind of man who will pick himself up, who will brush himself off, who will face that road train a thousand times before bowing to defeat. I will be the kind of man who will either become one with the bitumen, or by God's glorious grace reach your side.
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T
The Balaam Monologue
O Lord, let me be as Balaam,   only able to utter   only able to speak   only able to bless   only able to curse those words and names,       subjects and rulers,       mothers, sons,       fathers, daughters,       wives, husbands,       women, men, that you place on my lips.      Let me speak thine truth      thine whole truth,      and nought but    
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t
thebigwet
That serpent slithers past,                                  fast. Her furious hunger swallowing whole all that lies in her path. She has no mercy, she makes no concession. She does nothing     but devour and grow fat     with insatiable greed. Yesterday she protected us,     brought us life,     gave us joy. We revelled in her beauty,     bathed in her majesty. Today she demands her fill,     her payment     her sacrifice. Today we           see her true colours:                            Mud brown and                            black as night. O river,             how hath we offended thee?            
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T
The Smiles of Silent Judgement
The smiles of silent judgement slither across their knowing faces;     lips lying,     laying in wait          to thunder down God's almighty truth          upon the sideways sinner.     Poised-ready to pounce     at the slightest suggestion of a slip. While the infant in the corner-     hands outstretched and     feet together     wept.          For His works ignored,          for His grace witheld.
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C
CHI-RHO
Who am I, O LORD, that you should bless me?      An unsteady harlot,      drowning in my own sin and failings      (though I try always to walk upon the sea). As I fall, in the seconds that briefly linger, your firm grasp saves me from the dark, eternal pit where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. For although my grip will forever slip, your hand, O LORD, it never fails. For I am yours and you are mine, and on me, forever, shall your mercy be!
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1Favourites
A
About Tomorrow
The swallows and sparrows dance on the cool morning breeze. They rise and fall;         float and stall;         soaring, diving, fluttering and all the while chattering-         not about days been,         nor days to come-         but the present moment;         their current joy. They trust the sun to rise at dawn, the moon to appear in the even cooler twilight air. The swallows and sparrows 
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T
The Jazz Player
The jazz player hunched in the corner outside the circles of dim light, cast by steel-shaded lamps, hung from the ceiling. The lamps broke through the darkness, but failed to make clear the thick smoke of cheap cigars and tar-laden cigarettes. A one-man quartet could be heard from the corner— the lone saxophonist mystically weaving his melody in and around itself, knitting a cocoon around himself until he was completely, flawlessly protected from anything which could reveal and tear apart his vunerable heart. And yet to do so, he himself needed to make a small incision, through which he would feed his fingers, flowing flawlessly and eff
8Comments
1Favourites
M
MUSEings
My muse and I reached reason. I gladly devour'd her fruit with selfish glutt; nill return. So she most softly made known: honeyed words aren't freely laid -- one must observe and examine. Only then will she sweetly whisper; only then will we love once more.
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O
On words unspoken or unread
Words echo into the space - waves of scattered particles spreading into infinity. They last but moments then dissipate- never disappearing but growing further and further apart; they shrink smaller, smaller, as they spread longer, longer. Words sink deep into paper. Lines of ink staining fibre. They are unmoving- lasting until the paper itself is destroyed (possibly until the end of time). What are spoken words if nobody hears? What are written words if nobody reads? And words read from a page to an empty space-                                                                    are these doubly useless? Yet if space is never empty...  
0Comments
3Favourites
I
I, The Sober Fool
My Beloved speaks profundities      and pays dues not His own- while I, the sober fool,      stumble falsely drunk. Though His wine warms my heart      and sweetly stains my lips, it is not potent in my veins-      I am not subject to it's dance. I drink too little, too less      for the drunkard I claim to be.
0Comments
1Favourites
D
DONT WALK
I am the kind of man who will stand at the DONT WALK sign on an empty intersection of an abandoned town. I am the kind of man Who is flattened by a renegade road train on the very same intersection if I do decide to walk. Yet. I am becoming the kind of man who will pick himself up, who will brush himself off, who will face that road train a thousand times before bowing to defeat. I will be the kind of man who will either become one with the bitumen, or by God's glorious grace reach your side.
2Comments
0Favourites
T
The Balaam Monologue
O Lord, let me be as Balaam,   only able to utter   only able to speak   only able to bless   only able to curse those words and names,       subjects and rulers,       mothers, sons,       fathers, daughters,       wives, husbands,       women, men, that you place on my lips.      Let me speak thine truth      thine whole truth,      and nought but    
0Comments
0Favourites
t
thebigwet
That serpent slithers past,                                  fast. Her furious hunger swallowing whole all that lies in her path. She has no mercy, she makes no concession. She does nothing     but devour and grow fat     with insatiable greed. Yesterday she protected us,     brought us life,     gave us joy. We revelled in her beauty,     bathed in her majesty. Today she demands her fill,     her payment     her sacrifice. Today we           see her true colours:                            Mud brown and                            black as night. O river,             how hath we offended thee?            
3Comments
0Favourites
T
The Smiles of Silent Judgement
The smiles of silent judgement slither across their knowing faces;     lips lying,     laying in wait          to thunder down God's almighty truth          upon the sideways sinner.     Poised-ready to pounce     at the slightest suggestion of a slip. While the infant in the corner-     hands outstretched and     feet together     wept.          For His works ignored,          for His grace witheld.
0Comments
0Favourites
C
CHI-RHO
Who am I, O LORD, that you should bless me?      An unsteady harlot,      drowning in my own sin and failings      (though I try always to walk upon the sea). As I fall, in the seconds that briefly linger, your firm grasp saves me from the dark, eternal pit where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. For although my grip will forever slip, your hand, O LORD, it never fails. For I am yours and you are mine, and on me, forever, shall your mercy be!
0Comments
1Favourites
A
About Tomorrow
The swallows and sparrows dance on the cool morning breeze. They rise and fall;         float and stall;         soaring, diving, fluttering and all the while chattering-         not about days been,         nor days to come-         but the present moment;         their current joy. They trust the sun to rise at dawn, the moon to appear in the even cooler twilight air. The swallows and sparrows 
1Comments
0Favourites
T
The Jazz Player
The jazz player hunched in the corner outside the circles of dim light, cast by steel-shaded lamps, hung from the ceiling. The lamps broke through the darkness, but failed to make clear the thick smoke of cheap cigars and tar-laden cigarettes. A one-man quartet could be heard from the corner— the lone saxophonist mystically weaving his melody in and around itself, knitting a cocoon around himself until he was completely, flawlessly protected from anything which could reveal and tear apart his vunerable heart. And yet to do so, he himself needed to make a small incision, through which he would feed his fingers, flowing flawlessly and eff
8Comments
1Favourites
M
MUSEings
My muse and I reached reason. I gladly devour'd her fruit with selfish glutt; nill return. So she most softly made known: honeyed words aren't freely laid -- one must observe and examine. Only then will she sweetly whisper; only then will we love once more.
0Comments
0Favourites
Night flight
300Comments
2KFavourites
Book Icons
81Comments
205Favourites
To be, or not to be
43Comments
325Favourites
I
In Three Acts
man cliff     sea cliff     man     sea cliff      sea      man
982Comments
1.7KFavourites
Dragon Ball Aston2
4Comments
5Favourites
Llego con Tres Heridas
312Comments
4KFavourites
Space Jockey
49Comments
393Favourites
U
Universes Away
 Laughter rang out across the abandoned park. The brown, drying out grass crunched beneath a flannel blanket as it landed on the ground. "Oy," a boy called out across the lawn, "I forgot the lemonade." He settled down on the blanket, placed on a slant where the park lawn dipped. A few moments later, coming just over the dip was a pair of moonlight white legs in a short grey skirt. Her body was tilted funny, off to one side as she carried the pack of Mike's Hard Lemonade. High heels dangled in her other hand more lightly. She passed him the heavy box then settled down lightly next to him. The muggy summer night left her bangs clinging to
13Comments
5Favourites
I
I Spend My Life Looking...
You can keep your red evening gowns                         and y(our) evenings too. I will keep the months of silence, and quiet, still phones,                        useful when nothing is calm. Suddenly I like my men to be         A little more awkward than before         A little more awkward than you.    &#
7Comments
9Favourites
Check mate
191Comments
1.2KFavourites

Spotlight

D
DONT WALK
I am the kind of man who will stand at the DONT WALK sign on an empty intersection of an abandoned town. I am the kind of man Who is flattened by a renegade road train on the very same intersection if I do decide to walk. Yet. I am becoming the kind of man who will pick himself up, who will brush himself off, who will face that road train a thousand times before bowing to defeat. I will be the kind of man who will either become one with the bitumen, or by God's glorious grace reach your side.
2Comments
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Artist
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Llama: Llamas are awesome! (5)
My Bio
Devious Journal Entry
I don't know who - if anybody - still visits this neglected corner of dA. But I've gone through and purged the crap. This profile originated as a space to upload all my poetry               - regardless of quality -                                                     under a very thin pseudonym. Then I became attached. Then I became distracted. Now I am writing again -                      and the shite must go. So my gallery reserved for crap is gone           (as are the ones which slipped through the cracks). Poems of sub-quality (but not trash-worthy) are now in the 'scrapbook'. I will be uploading a newer, longer piece o
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MUSEings...
"They are all of one mind, their hearts are set upon song and their spirit is free from care. He is happy whom the Muses love. For though a man has sorrow and grief in his soul, yet when the servant of the Muses sings, at once he forgets his dark thoughts and remembers not his troubles. Such is the holy gift of the Muses to men." - Hesiod My muse and I reached reason. I gladly ate her fruit, giving nothing in return. She softly made known: affections aren't freely laid. one must watch, listen, read, examine. Only then will she sweetly whisper, Aye; then we shall love once more. Godspeed, -theodoric
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My Muse Is A Fickle Creature
I discovered something today: There aren't any names with the meaning 'Promiscuous'. I was trying to find a name for my muse - She dissapears for weeks on end. I suspect she's seeing someone else. My Muse is a fickle creature. -- Thus - maybe I should listen to Mr Gide: "Art is a collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better." - André Gide Godspeed, -Theodoric.
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DeFormity0Professional Digital Artist
Thank you!
Stay creative ♥
Thank you for deciding my work was worth being aware of!

I hope to produce articles of artistic merit that justify your choice!

Thank you!
Thank you for producing work worthy to be shared!
Catoram-AProfessional General Artist
thank you for the watch!!!! :iconrainbowsheep2:
psdeluxeHobbyist Digital Artist
thanks for the fav on this --> [link] :)
Lookie Lookie!! I took your advice!