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Remember.With tired old eyes, faded and grey
an old woman tries to recall the world today,
and her hands shake as she starts to pray,
but why is that? -she cannot say.
And in her mind, the trains are all still runnin',
her favorite movie stars are all still stunnin',
there's still romance in rain
and a new age is comin'-
A sunset is on the horizon.
But in her mind, the man on the moons still singin',
her mamas wondering what this new age is bringin',
she dances outside in her sunday clothes,
and she loves a boy, who surely knows.
A sunset is on the horizon.
But in her mind, there's no reason to cry
the man on the mountain is still sittin' high,
and she doesn't know what it means to die
The sunset is on the horizon.
A FIGHT.Face the sorrows,
face the pain,
take your work,
to receive your gain,
We can not honestly want to take,
what we will not -do not- want to make.
When the walls are |high| and the chances are slim,
the windows barred and the lights are dim-
we will not lay down, give up and run out,
in the toughest trials and in the l o n g e s t bouts.
For what is the point of growing up, of learning,
if you give up what you have already worked hard earning?
A future is the result of your hard work,
a badge you wear of your climb
from the murk
And against the trials, the young all stand,
jaws set hard, hand in hand.
Misfortune is a cruel mistress , but don’t give into doing what’s wrong
lest’ we ruin the meaning of being one who is
This is a march onto life, not a slump into death,
if you die on the walk there, what was the worth of your breath?
You make me feel...I'll sell every word I've ever spoken,
and leave my mirrors broken,
for you to let me paint your name across my skies,
make me feel pure enough to forgive my own lies.
Taint at the feet of a verbal Adonis,
something free, not wanting to be harnessed-
and yet I beg just for one small glimmering taste,
to be done slowly, or done in haste,
just for one small significant, loving moment
Good Night, Good MorningAs we lay across beds apart,
at the threshold of “good night, and good morning”
We are swallowed by the cross of sun and night,
in our own special way of courting.
We stay up talking until we sleep,
and only sleep at the peak of dawn,
preferred simply for the silence of the house,
when the distractions are all gone.
In my dreams, I always dream,
of frivolous little things,
as I cling to bedsheets dreaming of
the dreams the sandman brings.
You'd never realize how silly-in-love I am,
until you've climbed inside my head.
To witness what I dream of you,
while curled up in my bed.
Several times, I've had a dream
that I got to hold your hand,
and you held it with that silly attitude you have,
when you make fun of my demands.
Other times, I've dreamt a dream,
that I crawled inside your sheets,
laid my head against your chest,
and slept to the way that your heart beats.
Of course, sillier things happen there,
in the dreams that I've told,
but I fear your thoughts of those bits
All the things you are.All the things you are,
are things I find dearest to me-
the dimmed light of passive spirit,
the indecisiveness of the sea.
There is clear clarity like the winter,
across the land in a frozen sheet.
Gravel tongue like the rough pavement,
that bays not to passing feet.
A graveyard statue stark against skies,
or even the starry night
but gentle like wind beneath wings
as it passes in flight.
An ever thoughtful mind,
the warmth in the dark,
the tenderness in soft sheets-
A beloved and cherished mark.
Impossible to avoid,
like the setting of the sun,
the last few echoes of a note-
Inevitably to be done.
And someday with hope like that
of leafy climbing vines,
I hope to find that all the things you are
will finally become mine.
Tell Her...Tell me it’s not really over
Tell me we didn’t just say goodbye
Tell me we can begin again
Tell me we’re worth one last try
Tell that you miss me, too
Tell me you think of me when you awake
Tell me I fill your dreams at night
Tell me this is all a mistake
Tell me you need me
Tell me you love me
Tell me I have a place in your life
Just tell me something
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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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