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The Last Requiem...
"The Last Requiem Under the Stars"
A forbidden fruit one-shot
The sound of the lyre echoes in the ruined walls of the city.
A boy plays to the tune of the dark sky. He follows the stars as they form a constellation of notes that he was to follow.
He listens to what the midnight breeze whispers in his ear. He then in turn makes use of the breeze's words as his own but hums in his own melody.
He begins to sing his requiem
His voice eerily serene and melancholic, calls out to the gods and the darklings that envy his talent.
He waits in the ruins accompanied only by the smile of the crescent.
In the darkness, he sings to the moon hoping to enchant her with his song and let her illuminating shadow extend towards him.
In the darkness, he sings.
In the garden where only his fear and longing could be felt, he waits.
"My Son," The Lord of infinite darkness exeunts from his dwelling and steps into the finite world to meet with his mortal son.
The Lord o
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More