Sunday, 16 November 2014

Shower Inspiration

"I want to know all about the wounds that are scars now
So I can kiss them even more tenderly
Let me peek through the shutters of your soul
and greet the rising evening sun
in all its pastel watercolor splendor."

From Tumblr.

Monday, 3 November 2014

Sylvan Home

Lythriel opened the studded wooden door and stepped out into a sea of greenness and inhaled the intense odor of the woods - the smell of sap, pines and December rain all mixed up in her nose and made her ecstatic. Never would she leave this place, she swore, a sylvan haven and home to her dreams. Here she'd sit on logs and write letters to the constellations, lean on tree trunks and daydream, make a bed of leaves and look for hazelnuts to crack open and eat just like she used to with her childhood friends - a memory long gone but nevertheless preserved in the last chamber of her heart. And he would be there to share every new memory and adorn it with his presence. He would be there to call her in when it rains and light a fire. Or to let the heaven-sent drops soak them both as their hands intertwine. She'd be there to point at tiny insects creeping beneath the beds of grass and unknown flowers whose names they'd memorize. Lythriel would play her flute everyday, wear a crown of flowers and leaves, make one for him and be an elf, his elf. They'd be immortal to each other. At least here, she can dream. At least here, they can dream. Lythriel walks to the side door to cut logs for the chimney. It will be a cold night but now that she had a home, she felt that even seven Winters cannot freeze her to death.

Sunday, 2 November 2014

The Man with Antlers

In the light of a Red Moon
I found you in a gloomy forest, astray.
Antlers grew out of your head
and pierced my chest as I approached you
You wreck my bones and twist my flesh
You're my crucifier
Lucifer that ensnares me
Lucifer that wants my blood
And thus, I bleed.
Your love is the crucifix
that I am nailed to
I cannot breathe
I don't want to breathe
You asphyxiate me.
Lick, inhale, drink the passion
that seeps from bloody antlers.

In the dead of night I feel serene
Your chest, an ocean of pumping veins
pounding against my head, gently cradles me to sleep
You are like the hollow of an oak during winter -
When everything freezes over
You are the refuge,
the place to be,
the place to lay my tired heart to rest.

Sensitive as Death by Mala Lesbia on deviantArt