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Sisyphus' lamentWhen you understand me, you'll understand how repetition is painful, as a symbol of an endlessly recurring time.
Everything must flow, otherwise I don't live!
Why anger? In order to let a fragile wall hang between desperation and I. When I don't have enough strength to stand up anymore, I won't have any strengths anymore. Then even this rempart will be destroyed by the industrious goings-on of human incoherence. I know I am still human because I am still affected. When I don't feel anything anymore, when I'm calm, when they have brought me down, when I am kneeling, docile, mute, there won't be very much of me left already. Nor anything valuable in this world. Anger, anger is a sign, a sign of life... but of fall.
Failure calls for failure. Sadness, for sadness. Mine are hard to process -- others' can't be hidden. Time, stop! may the universe clot, cold, fleshless, deaf and blind! This, is being one -- this, is remaining and not becoming anymore ; contemplating and not planning anymore,
ElegyEvery melody tells of a story:
This one is nostalgy of golden hair
And lavender scented lukewarm dreams.
Hesitating elegy of a time that's no more
Murmurs from an epoch henceforth asleep,
As a child resting protected from worry:
Present, elsewhere, peaceful.
Yet we have to liveNomads in the desert
Know no exile.
Sun and storms and the infinite dunes
Devour, digest, infiltrate.
Sand in the eyes, in the heart, in the mouth
In the lungs, fire.
Yet we have to live.
MysteriesThe stars of waned flowers rest
Streaming down the long hair flow
Drawing there ocean reflections, virtuoso
The country I live inI am not seated
In a forward-facing seat.
My native land gains altitude,
I disappear in the abyssal forests
Of the country I live in.
Never dare forgetEven if you take another pillow
To rest your head
Never dare forget
The memory of moonlight
Falling on this sleeve wet by our tears
The Death of MuninnIt was a solitary night and the moonlight shed melancholy.
He had sent her the branch of a cherry-tree.
And a poem : "In every vein of these flowers, hundreds of words are hidden. Take good care of them!"
She had replied, with a poem : "In every vein of these flowers, hundreds of words cannot be held. Maybe the flower waned?"
A bird screamed over the night sky -- even he had a heart, it seemed.
Between the hills, snow hadn't melted. "Spring rain", he said, "don't fall so hard. If you were to hurt the cherry-tree, my hope would be lost".
A year had passed, summer fall and spring again, when a note was brought. A poem, with a broken branch of cherry-tree : "A red bird died today and had the memory of you."
He wore a feather, and a flower, and a letter, at her funerals.
mechanici want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes
but this dripping heart of mine can only feel
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth
so i only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that i care all too much
and in order to fix you up again,
i would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but i just haven’t figured out how.
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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