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Suffering of PuppetsTug one string, whip him round
Contort him in malevolent ways
"Oh dear," ― a ripping sound ―
"Poor thing's seen too many plays."
Pull him this'a way
― An' that'a way ―
And back again,
Until his time's done.
Suddenly, up goes his head ―
But without a tug of the thread.
He whispers, nigh-silently, his plight,
defiantly: "What gives you the right?"
He wraps loose string about his arms,
Pulls, and his master he disarms.
Indignantly: "You'll curse the day
That you denied us any say
As to the workings of these foul plays."
Breaking the strings that bind him;
He's breaking the rules,
― And all reservation inside him.
"We're tired of being taken for fools!"
The puppet turns, and speaks to me:
Throw off the chains of oppression;
It's as easy as breaking the strings!
Forget profit, that capitalist obsession
And the puppets will, with you, sing
"No more gods,
No more masters!
No more slaves,
Nor economic disasters."
We'll go our sepa
RequiemAs we ride into battle,
I wonder, "Is this our salvation?"
Charging into the fray,
"Is this my last day?"
Slaughtered like so many cattle
Is this our damnation?
One rattling, shuddering breath
Before that merciful death.
"Spirit cleansed and virtue reborn."
Comforting words for those who mourn.
Lies told, solemn oaths sworn
"Damned be those who scorn."
Let us end this devilish enterprise
That which has stolen so many lives
In the name of land and resources
And these pitiful, imaginary political discourses.
Let us be able to say
That the hell called war;
That it is no more,
It ends this day!
Embrace the StarsStand in the warm glow
That rains so lightly upon
The cold, glittering snow
Before that star is gone
Shelter from the cold night
Until the brilliant dawn
The return of the soothing light
Of which we've grown so fond
Too often, the more distant stars
Go, in our ignorance, forgotten
They're away from us, so very far
But from them, are our lives begotten
The Music of the Spheres
Is audible to attentive ears
Listen to that magnificent symphony
That of the vast, dark eternity
Burning Orb of Luminescent Glory
Eclipse the whole of the human story
Lashing out with tongues of fire
Trivialize all human passion and desire
Stars are within us
As we are but a small part
Of the Forever All;
The Wonderful Universe
Dancing in the WindI look up at the branches
And see the leaves blowing
The trees swaying in the wind.
I feel it between my fingers
The air slipping through them
The wind, tenderly holding my hand.
My hair, thrown about by the gusts
It gets in my eyes and tickles my face
But I don't mind. The Sun is warm.
I close my eyes and reach out
Until my arms reach the sky
The wind flows through me,
My essence flows into it
Merges with it, twisting itself
Into the wyrd of the World.
I can feel it all within me.
The grass is damp under my feet
And I feel the life without.
I open my eyes.
The Sun is setting now.
Vivid, wonderful colours!
All, beautiful beyond reason.
The wind caresses me yet.
I feel life bubbling up inside me
Drifting throughout my being,
Every nerve is excited by the rush
Of the air over my exposed skin
Chills dance up and down my spine.
My limbs insist on movement
Such wonderful energy! Such life!
I find myself Dancing in the Wind.
Night falls as I flit about
The Moon shines, brilliantly
A Question in MindA questioning mind
Is always hard to find.
There is fear of the question 'Why?'
People will tend to look to the sky,
And let out an exasperated sigh,
When one insists on asking 'Why?'
Philosophers are thought of as contentious
(Not to mention, enormously pretentious.)
But really they just want to know
Why things are; what makes them so.
'Everyone's entitled to an opinion,' they say.
But not too many tend to think that way.
Choosing, rather, to carry on with their day.
Moving on, rushing through, no time to stay.
"Perhaps it's time you stopped to think
Before these poisonous lies do sink
Deep into your unconscious mind
Leaving you lost, confused, and unkind."
Philosophy is Thought, Freed.
From the overbearing and incessant need
For every act to be carried out with dazzling speed.
It is the nurturing that brings forth genius from it's seed.
Crucible of the Moonlit TearsThe wind rustles the unseen branches
Of the ancient, hallowed trees
The night is silent otherwise
And the light of the Moon is dim.
A figure is barely visible in the darkness
Standing with their head held high
And their eyes closed, facing the Moon
Her smile is radiant in the night
Outshining the stars and the nebulae
And the rest of creation besides
She stands there as tears pour forth
And disappear into the grass at her feet.
My heart races at the sight
What betrayal of reason is this?
For tears of joy do not readily flow
What night is this, that wets these eyes?
The moonlight rains down upon the Earth
And the tears glow incendiary
Burning through the darkness of the night
A puddle of liquid fire at the girl's feet.
She kneels and inspects the quicksilver pool
She watches as mirrored tendrils reach out
And spread across the landscape, painting it
Covering it, enshrouding it, devouring it.
The girl fades from my field of view
And the silver film dissipates slowly
The Sun rises slowly
Simplicity of SufferingUniting us in life is the pervasive,
Unavoidable presence of pain.
Under the mask, invasive
And hidden under smiles feigned.
The baseline emotion
What we most wish to avoid;
Becomes the reckless devotion
Of the overly paranoid.
Suffering is common to us all
More than love, happiness, or rage
To escape it is instinct's call
To weather it, the curse of age.
Simple in its realization
Complexity is reserved for joy
And foolish, rapturous sensation.
Agony is in nature's employ.
Properly experienced, it will create
Utmost compassion, care for one another
But taken for the cruelty of fate,
One may find conflict among brothers.
Our sufferings are universal
Extending beyond nations and tongue
Scenes to which we are averse, will
You not find humanity among.
To all else we may pay no regard
For we all feel the same pain
Our prejudices we may in haste discard
If we find ourselves in the same rain.
Life is not to be suffered through
And swiftly and cruelly ended.
But to be enjoyed every day, anew
The Sky Ablaze with InnocenceTributaries of blood flow down the arm
Of a dying man, pooling into his hand.
Miniscule red waterfalls flow between
His inanimate fingers; draining away
What little semblance of life remains.
So returns the hot blood of the Earth
To the crucible from which it was forged
The carrier of the animating force; life
Seeping back into the soil of its genesis.
Biological clockwork, rent from its frame
With no regard for Nature's craftsmanship,
Nor for the evolutionary legacy written
Over the eons by the blind watchmaker.
The wyrd of too many an innocent
Snapped by the whims of the rich;
Tapestries spun by chance and intent
Torn from the halls of the living
By the greed of the powerful.
Rivers of red flow though the clouds
As the Sun sets on this vicious day
The blood of the innocent spilled
Across the sky; the soil stained.
Vicarious Vices and VictimizationYour youth yearns for years
Lost in languid living, to lift
Itself from the itinerant iteracy
Of the off-putting offerings of
The terrible and tenacious toil
Escaped by every entrepreneur, enslaving
We, the workers; wrought with worry,
Making machines, manufacturing the means to
Life; and the lashes of our lavish lords.
Vicarious Vices and varying values
Corrupted and corroded by capricious catastrophes
Deftly designed by the decrepit designated deities,
Faintly fazed by financial fetterings.
Souls sold into slavery by sellers of snake-oil.
Violence vindicated and Victims vehemently vilified
Shortchanged into a soulless submission,
Culled from the creative class, crafts of
Skill, stolen and shirked... soon sold.
I did not save her from the sea.The pond was small, the cattails fair;
The algae drew a shining veil
Across the waters waiting there
For her to come while wandering
And stare beyond the dreary pale
Expanse of fog and starry glare
Upon the pond within the dale
Where she had ventured, pondering
The many dreams she'd had of late
Of sandy-shores and broken shells
Upon a beach along a strait
And of the ocean shimmering
She heard the wave's cathedral bells
Come crashing with a dreadful weight
'Till she, afraid of violent swells,
Could no more see the glimmering
Of pearly foam, nor shining seas
But only turbid tempest-doom;
No more the fragrant, salt-laced breeze
That over all was mingling.
Such were her dreamsnow through the gloom
She still heard gulls with throatful ease
Sing of the ocean, and the tune
Around her thoughts kept lingering.
I met her then, when stormy waves
Were breaking on her weary mind
And I was unafraid and brave
And as a child foolishly
Believed that if we left behind
The little pondth
ForwordI have not become stronger
in the broken places.
Bones ache of age
and each cracking joint
is an audible reminder
of paths walked too long
and of steps
that should have been,
but were never taken.
Bent fingers jut
from palms of sandpaper,
calloused and crinkled,
they cannot grip
with that same eager desperation
of a child seeking comfort.
Black becomes gray
at the gates
of troubled temples and
once saliently sweet,
decay on the tongue
like the sound
of necessary words produced,
but never employed.
I have not become stronger in the broken places,
but scars and bruises,
sprains, cuts and concussions this day
are always better than
regrets and second guessing
Muse (Think of Me as Beauty)Think of me as Beauty
With an Eros inclination
Folded between the pages
And you have marked
The places where I exist,
Lying in situ among the paragraphs.
think no more of love as you know itcalm yourself, darling.
wipe your past mistakes
from your chin and
give me a listen -
i died years ago, i'll have
you believe i did, on the side
of the road like my mother
said i would, smeared into
my own sadness and the
pain of an old lover -
it's been even longer since
i was loved like a woman
should be loved, not with
flowers and apologies
and kisses on new years,
but the kind of love
that keeps you up at night
and makes you weep for
the innocence you once had;
for once you are someone, you
can never not be that someone.
who am i without my illness?
i'm not talking about the kind
that needs medical attention,
pills and the sort, but rather
the illness that makes me fat
with love for you;
for once you have loved someone,
they will never breathe their last.
i died years ago, i'll have
you believe i did, and it happened
when i realized i was
someone worth loving.
tea colored eyes and worried handsyou took my soul with you when you left, but you forgot to tell me what i should do without it.
but that's okay, my dearest, i can forgive you for that. you were always so forgetful with your tea colored eyes and your worried hands, and you took off in such a hurry that no one could blame you for neglecting such a small little detail.
you were beautiful. did you know that? you had a crooked smile and you were too skinny and your feet were too big, but you owned your imperfections with such confidence, such assuredness, that people would look twice and wonder if they were really imperfections after all. you made yourself perfect through sheer will.
sometimes at night i start to ache without you. all you left behind when you went were some pictures and a sweater and your smell. your smile looks fake in the pictures. i'm wearing your sweater. your smell makes me cry.
you know, when i close my eyes i see all those freckles on your hands. they stuck inexplicably in my mind, a piece of you i
Keep Me On the HorizonMeet me at the edge of where
blindness touches freedom.
I'll always wait for you.
I've walked that line
far longer than a sunset.
When will the rise replace the fall?
Statues in the cemetery point
to a transparent wall of mockery.
I can't help but notice you
standing behind it.
Ask the slave about chains, not the jeweler.
I won't be told what to love
or when to love it.
Trees live longer by just standing still.
Again, ask the slave about chains.
Show me where I can find the
softer side of the soul.
I suspect it was never at the center.
MEi. I fell in love with a girl who catalogued darkness,
sat in her room with the blinds closed and wrote down
187 ways it felt
in all of the different times she couldn't see.
My name was one of them,
#143, ash velvet, and I didn't know what she meant at the time
but the only description she wrote beneath it
was good night for stuffed animals
bad night for worn pillows.
And I'm sorry I made you dream of the rivers.
ii. I fell in love with a girl who never looked in the mirror
but dressed to perfection, somehow
in her blue skirt and black socks
white tennis shoes
and a smile crooked as the bottom side of Indiana
yeah, I fell in love with a girl
who could never quite get it straight but hey,
I've never been 100% straight either,
and the one corkscrew curl you have
opens me up like fine wine
each time I see you smile in that cracked bathroom mirror.
Makes me half-drunk,
iii. I fell in love with a girl who was depressed by Paris,
but loved Italy beca
What you never were.When I was fifteen
you seemed like the best kind of bad idea,
and full of half-hearted promises
scarlet tinged dreams,
for some reason I thought of you as a toy solider with a dented tin helmet.
You didn't believe in christmas
You didn't know how to have meals on kitchen tables,
but you half-smiled at me while tracing sharp edges against my neck,
I'd always liked puzzles and I thought I could put you back together again.
I don't suppose
I put up many walls to stop you
from climbing over bricks and into my bed
but I was nearly sixteen
and wanted to taste something
other than a small town waiting on a low hope future
and you seemed to have a fast track forward with the car keys glittering in your hands.
I knew your heart was coated in a hard candy shell,
but when I cracked you I didn't expect to find a hollow
leaving a sour taste in my mouth
spiking like glass shards against my tongue.
When I was fifteen
I was still expecting someone to be my he
Is it ok to tell your 12 year old son to blow you?fissures created from the
corrosion of our relationship
whatever it’s called
I somehow love
savoring the taste
of the deceit that you spew
beautiful eyes locked into
the guise of devotion
you reek of lavender
and eternal martyrdom
woe is me
my father hates me
so I’ll hate you
I want to hear the sirens
as one of us
drowns in that
pathetic excuse of a
man made lake
filled with shit and piss
and nearly two years
of feigned interest
rolling back into your head
the art of happiness
is learning how to
understand that life
isn’t a question of why
Time Goes OnThe stones that lay on the riverbed
Grow round gradually
Water flows over them perpetually
But it is time that erodes.
Mountains, proud and powerful
Slowly fade from prominence
Rain and wind assaulting them
But it is time which forces them to submit.
Life, brief and energetic
Exhausts itself in a blink
Bones slowly calcifying,
It is time that preserves them.
War, violent and horrid
Infects the world with hate
But the bullets stop being fired
And time brings peace.
Injustice, blatant and atrocious
Plagues all great civilizations
But all debts are paid in full
As time brings death to empires.
Heartbreak, vividly painful
Agonizes the souls of the lonely
But the heart's woes pass
And time heals all wounds.
Emotion, pervasive and immutable
Infinitely various and complex
Impossible to predict its fluctuation
But time brings balance.
The Immensity of Time;
Impossible to comprehend,
But plain in every moment.
I feel it flow through me
As it beckons me closer to the void
And I let it take me th
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More