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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
October 11, 2011
Soft is a quiet moment of a poem by ~saartha.
Featured by ikazon
Suggested by zebrazebrazebra
Literature Text
The rain comes in
from the mountainside
and the musculature
quietens. The birds, the beasts,
the slanting cliff,
the light, the restless
hollowed emptiness,
the bits of lava and bits
of heartbeat and bits of
racing animal mind.
It quietens.
The rain comes in like a slow blink.
from the mountainside
and the musculature
quietens. The birds, the beasts,
the slanting cliff,
the light, the restless
hollowed emptiness,
the bits of lava and bits
of heartbeat and bits of
racing animal mind.
It quietens.
The rain comes in like a slow blink.
Literature
Rooibos
If under mulch she sang a rotten
wood-like note with quiver
Nostalgic for her days alive
Surely they could forgive her
Most days it's quiet (these days it's cold)
Her bones observe the soil
But Spring is pulsing warm and gold
Teasing memories to boil
Like heated milk the liquid smell
of evening drips in branches
A honeybee who suffocates
falls near her musing ashes
"Is it wine or light strawberry?"
She asks him of the sky
Though his dead ears don't hear her query
The answer is "Like dye"
Just under mulch I hear a rotten
wood-like note with quiver
Flushing young in days alive
Of course I can f
Literature
To Dream of Falling
I dream of falling.
It's not a dream common to angels. After all, we have a pair of wings--or two or three--and we can use them. We float upon the air, dance among the stars, shape the clouds with our breath, and so on. All that lovely wordplay to describe an indescribable. A joy, a graceless power. Flight.
Humans dream of it often, I am told. It makes sense. They have no wings save for what they create with their hands. Airplanes, hang gliders, helicopters. Kites. They are obsessed with the sky, more so than the angels themselves, many of whom will fly three thousand miles rather than walk across the street.
And yet I dream of f
Literature
unlearn the constellations
I may carry my voice
on white-crested wingtips
but I refuse to take the names of birds.
My throat is not a desert
with smoldered star limbs
in place of sand, not a stone
for you to overturn and mark
with gentle cloud prints
or leave in the mud
to be perforated by bright moss.
My song is not made
to be thundered like a body
on the wind, to be bellowed
by the jagged mouths
of some distant, forgotten jungle.
It is made to slide along the edges
of twenty burning suns and rise
like a halo of newfound breath
from the crevice which splits
earth and sea. To break open
like the young, wet-winged dove
born of a glorious mud
which cracks mountains wi
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Edit 10/11/11: Oh literature community, you are too kind to me. Thank you to =zebrazebrazebra and ^lightningmonkey for my fourth DD.
Edit 10/11/11: Oh literature community, you are too kind to me. Thank you to =zebrazebrazebra and ^lightningmonkey for my fourth DD.
© 2009 - 2024 saartha
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that's so awesome!