|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
The Soap Bubble TheoristOf my forebears I know little,
but that they argued with their shadows and insisted
that the shadows argued back.
Of my life I offer but the following,
unveiled and brought to bare:
that I have argued with the image of myself
and it has never argued back;
that the shadow I cast grows long in latency
and flickers only with the flicker of my moving;
and that these eyes, milk and water,
have pierced me with the highest sort of strangeness
for neither prayer nor monologue
have swayed them.
I am but made from
water, soap, wind.
I expand without bursting;
I shimmer without heat.
I carry as a virgin waif by way of Acheron
out from the depths expelled and ever
And yet there is a logical end to all things.
All actions bear consequence and all things
cast before them and behind them
an image of themselves;
and I've no fate to bear but following in footsteps, and
waiting for a breeze.
water, soap, wind.
The lord has made me small,
so that the world shall not tremble greatly
with my passi
Wormwood (Firefly)She remembered the dreams.
Little bits of memories that had never really been hers, floating in her ears like wisps of smoke. The memories themselves had stopped coming to her, had abated since their trip to Miranda, but she remembered them. Images of men who breathed too deeply. Went to bed at night with something stirring in their lungs and in their blood, the men who turned to monsters in the darkest hours of the morning, and woke as Reavers, and burst from their homes and from their planet and then spread like a cancer to the skies.
It didn't happen all at once that they laid themselves down and began to die, out on Miranda, or in the worst of cases, that their humanity began to disappear beneath a growing sense of frenzied rage. It happened, in fact, very slowly. Took a while for the chemicals to react; cells to change. It disfigured the tissues of their brains in a gradual way, like a slow rot that began at the stem and spread up, around, flowering up into the hollows of their sk
A Eulogy for RomanceA shot rings out between the weathered walls
of an old city;
a little pop
between the tiers of brick and
twisted iron balconies
Bodies turn within their sheets;
minds caught up in the forest of a dream.
They stir, and nothing more.
It's a city of flowers, of hyacinth and lily
and morning glories twisting toward the moonrise
in the dark.
Cherry blossoms clot the gutters in the spring and disappear
beneath the swell of creeping phlox
when autumn comes.
And this is a city of roses.
City of red.
A shot rings out and there are rubies growing up like pleated rose petals
between the scales of the cobblestone.
What is the life of a mayfly.
away, away, away.
Bodies turning within their sheets
as a shadow falls in the city.
She finds she does not like the feeling of being bounced,
or the jolt of alarm
that sounds within her belly at the apex
of a Ferris wheel;
a shocked kind of caution,
where disbelief goes
to be suspended.
Like bodies turning in their sheets
at the sh
Keep in Touch!