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AmnesiaBellatrix coughed. She felt a taste of plaster in her mouth.
She opened her eyes, not sure what she was going to see.
Cold floorboards were covered with a thick layer of grayish dust. Rests of furniture were lying all around.
For a moment she contemplated the game of solar beams in broken fragments of a laboratory set, accompanied by a strangely high-pitched sound which seemed to be drilling into her brain. She tightened a grip on her wand. The memory of the last couple of minutes emerged from a pale blue mist, and that didn't make her feel better. She shoved her hair from her forehead and lifted herself on her elbows, analyzing the stimuli that were reaching her with some delay. She coughed again and swept her mouth with a sleeve, hoping to get rid of the disgusting taste. The sleeve was almost as dirty as the floor and Lestrange managed only to get a grayish line reaching from the corner of her mouth to her left ear.
And everything had seemed to be going like clockwork, but that alon
Closer to the transition with every breath
you know the timing is essential
excessive dramatism is condensing
with frozen silence grating on the ear.
A cascade of inconvenient questions
a lament died away and faded
there's no return, there is no crime
your trivial words are dripping into silence.
A half-green pill to kill the pain
kitchen drawers slammed shut
hours of prayers to the ceiling
like a jacquard patterned in herringbone of despair.
Can't cure me the sleep, can't cure me the night
The breaking day can't cure me either
Your words like the wind, you thoughts like a bird
That is fed with berries of a rowan
Fall asleep my Prince of Sunshine
It's dark and nothing bad can come
deep burgundy here on the floor
and on my lips, left wrist of mine
Intoxicating last inertia
is pulling veins bitten in two
Hemera will not wake the Prince
until he comes whom I await
dazzling with darkness of his wings
the collector of silent breaths.
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More