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INFORMATION

Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'

Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.

CONTACT

FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves

CREDITS

Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
My friend, the poet.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 11:39 PM

The glass stained windows in scorching sun.
Would they melt petrified bark out there. It stands still
To Yesterday. Far out a bit of dead wood stabs the sand
fastened to the cracked earth. She lingers, I linger.

She threw her head and laughed.
Of bitterest humour, floating strings of cheap black wig
When I frowned, making sense of her inane gestures
Why in my house, this clashes with the furniture.

Making notes sounds, scratching the paper
A long-nailed finger, dried and bones
Witch, out of the gloom. Glided stirring hair
Her face is translucent against the black rock

A new work scrawls lines. Before long the sun has disappeared
Flashing streaks surrounds the darkest day. World whirling
Witch fearing thunder, lashing rain. Her face transmutes into a thing
Repulsion resembles a mask of gory death

I sought to understand. As she splinters into sawdust back to ground.
The language of her heart wreathed. Heaven cracks.
The claws, his voice, a keyhole of death. Picking the lock a blind woman
I have no part in this game.

She snatches the paper from my hands, hers are peeling cardboard.
Her flesh clings weakly to the bone than remain, seek deeper than
What I could know. A little than ghouls in a grave.
Her eyes has the flame that scorched her curtains.

Her heart is dysfunctional, broken gears and falling teeth. Loose chains.
She cannot find. She thinks she has the key, that feeble frame
For certain has vanished, biding her time till tomorrow
The door has been shut. She went to the beasts.

Tell me how you manage to write the beautiful and tragic.

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