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She Haunts My BedroomHer fragrance hovers above where she slept.
The outline of her body is still imprinted on the mattress.
The candlelight still casts her shadow.
Her sounds still echo between the walls.
Her movements still sway in the sheets.
She haunts my bedroom.
Wings of the Shattered HeartThe emotional force from the pain shattered the heart.
Hands clutched the chest when the sounds of breaking glass echoed in the ears.
The shards of the heart protruded from the back in a wingéd symmetry.
As the eyes cried, the shards grew into massive, glass-feathered appendages.
When the tears stopped, the wings fluttered, causing a calming wind.
And the wings of the shattered heart took their possessor into flight.
New LifeDarkness slowly turned to blinding light as a force pushed the new life out.
Brand new eyes tried to adjust to the fluorescence, and brand new skin tried to adapt to the cold.
Hippocrates' legion cleansed the crying body, and handed the being to its waiting creators.
The painful screams that once dominated the room was replaced by congratulatory praise.
The patriarch took his creation from his female companion and smiled at the brand new face.
As a small hand reached out to grab at this unfamiliar face, the face gave a joyful yet solemn welcome to the world.
The PotionThe blade cut away the metal parchment from the head.
A metal screw dug itself into the soft sponge.
With an upward force, the sponge popped open the mouth.
An aroma of known and unknown fragrances filled the air.
The vessel turned to its side, bleeding a dark crimson into a crystal chalice.
A hand picks up the partially filled glass and rises it to a pair of lips.
The liquid slowly leaks into the mouth, giving away all its secrets.
Images of green vines and blue skies flood into the mind as the dark nectar flows deeper into its consumer.
Praise is given to the thousands of tiny lives that gave their blood to produce this luscious potion.
EveryEvery father is a son, but not every son is a father.
Every mother is a daughter, but not every daughter is a mother.
Every tree was a seed, but not every seed becomes a tree.
Not every river or stream flows into an ocean or sea.
Not every child will live to an old age.
Not every life gone will receive a burial or grave.
Every person you meet you may or may not see again.
And all those you call friends may or may not be a friend.
For every truth there are just as many fallacies.
And almost every one of your dreams will never become a reality
Two WordsTwo words she said to a face she didn't know, a face that belonged to me.
I know we've never met before, because I searched for her in my memory.
She had the most alluring eyes, and a smile that illuminated in the moon's light.
But the two words she spoke still haunt me, though it was many years ago one night.
It happened at a mansion, the first weekend of the scholastic year.
I arrived with a few acquaintances at this festive yet drunken affair.
I went to grab a mug of ale from the barrel where a few were conversing.
And then I heard two words I thought were directed to me, over the loud noise and cursing.
I turned to see the source of the voice who spoke what I've never been told before.
And there she was, standing with a friend, near the main entrance door.
I slowly approached her, and her smile grew with each step I took.
Then I turned over to my crowd, all giving amused and curious looks.
I asked her if she was speaking to me, and she said that she was.
I told her my name as I hel
ScriptoriumCandlelight dimly lit the cold stone walls.
Thousands of dusty tomes lined the shelves of the dark place.
Scribes sat at their wooden desks, fingers stained with ink.
They rapidly but diligently carried out their assigned duties.
In this place, deep in the cathedral's catacombs, is where they copy The Word.
Discarded parchment litters one of their desks, where a man sits in a lonely corner.
The others know not to bother him, for there is something otherworldly about his demeanor.
Though he sits in the room with them, he is not one who does the common task.
His writings aren't sacred, but centuries later they will be studied and followed.
Every dream, every nightmare, every emotion and every thought he scribbles on the pages.
He finds sanctuary in this dark prison, where he is locked behind the bars of his imagination.
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More