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MatronLack of new life
breaks her heart
if she remembers
she knew from the start
Child in her arms
her desperate cries
the child only hers
in desperate lies
From dreamsAll I have said
and all I have done
All I have written
all I have won
All that is lost
all I did find
All in the flesh
all in my mind
All I have suffered
from wearing this brand
is all washed away
in the palm of your hand
Those who leave the door openSomething
that I do not know
made a path into my world
just to let me go
the distance proved too far
and it left
leaving my door ajar
Prints made by feetI listen
His footsteps, as he
opens the door
removes his shoes and jacket
stretches his back
for the other footsteps
the other's footsteps, as he
along the way
for the last footsteps
for his boots on the floor
for the rustling of a long coat
and a kiss
that will never happen
Zombie, I have becomeI can not sleep
I can not
as the ghosts avoid me,
of turtles, of war, of sisters, of pain,
Into the small hours
(what's so small about them?)
I lie awake, thinking
of a house above a silver sea,
the smell of roses and bees,
in through the window: your voice,
from where I lost it
I can not sleep
I can not
I write books in my head
of a city, spires and all,
great chalices filled with light,
a young girl and another life
I stumble into an embrace,
deep and strong,
drowning as sleep finally wants me
I can not sleep
but face the day as someone else
Secret livesBeing a character in
my own story
is peculiarly difficult
Like all my written friends
I keep surprising myself
by leading a life
of my own
I really don'tI reached out,
he pulled back
He reached for me,
I turned around
Like a dance
Like a dance
you play the tune again
aiming for the heart:
breaking it to pieces
small enough for you to eat
when you have devoured all my selfconfidence
will you still love me?
Minutes and hours and yearsLast night I dreamed(and I am not afraid to say it)of you.
There was a green-eyes girl catching snowflakes in the garden behind the house as you knocked on my door. No. Our door.
You were older and seemed worn, tired; those smiling eyes not as brilliant as I recall. It was not only the cold of winter.
Helping you with your jacket I remembered:
Standing there, years before, warming my hands on your burning skin, while your lips scorched mine.
In my dream you were no longer fire, as if the ice had finally won and crept into your soul. I told you I had missed you, and it pained you to hear.
Then: my husband with a blue-eyed boy on his arm.
Then: a girl who didn't have my eyes, but long, dark lashes, like you.
I felt complete.
At night, because dreams skip and jump, we had a fire burning, casting shadows while mouths spoke and ears listened.
You told us how the world had broken something, tamed your young spirit, made you restless and rootless and helpless.
But the fire gleamed in your eye
Poem for My 2nd Semester English Teacher(Short v.)You stapled these words to the page.
Like a modern day tyrant,
You denied them the little humanity
You trapped their souls into
And threw them to the curb,
I understand that certain things
Should be left Inhuman
But we even give hurricanes names.
You taught us to separate the person from the art,
But if the art is about that person, you can’t pull them apart
Bridge ClosedIn the city of spires
thrust upward through the body of cloud
a piercing spike of adrenalin,
as the wind fondly ruffles her hair,
doesn't stop her from jumping up.
Reaching to be seen or saved,
by a city that blinks and misses her -
a temporary peak on the skyline.
Doesn't stop her from slamming
into the steel slashes
of the trainline below.
Even the most beautiful places
to those blinded by the inside-out-agony
of breathing against their will.
The city of spires remember her
as the cause for a bridge closed
on a Sunday.
The SundancersThe sundancers crease the sky ephemerally
and stain the floor with their bravery, eternally.
Did I Mention To You MarkiplierDid I mention to you Markiplier,
A man with so much love to share?
He's one of the few in this world
To take the time to show his care.
Did I mention to you my hero
Who helped me to lay down my knife?
He brought to light my joy inside
And reminded me the temporariness of strife.
Did I mention to you my saviour,
Who made me come to love me?
He blesses this world with all his work
In his constant support and charity.
Did I mention to you this humble man,
Who cares for the world deeply so?
He makes you laugh and makes you cry
Through the genuineness he shows.
It's hard to believe that this one man
Could inspire so many to chase their dreams
And prove to all who hear his words
That it may not be as difficult as it seems.
You call us your heros, your shining stars.
Thank you Mark for all you do.
It's people like me who want to prove
That the real hero is you.
FlamesThere are flames where
his head should be -
a poem left in the fireplace,
a dressing gown, a pipe,
forty pieces of silver.
This man promised you a winter
so warm and bountiful
spring would be ashamed.
He called you by name -
not the one that father knew
shoved under his bible.
But the one left behind
in the branches,
in the bucket of brambles,
and the columbines
buried at your feet.
Stones on the battlefield,
surrender in the grass.
What did his face
even look like behind the curtain,
counting those coins
and loosening the damp earth
from your shoes?
on moving outI take my bookends. I take my whiteboard
and that crooked letter opener I use to pop the caps off
beers, I take my poems,
I take my brand-new never-used coffeemaker
and my decades-old over-used typewriter which weighs
about 6 babies. I take my pictures, and those letters
you wrote me;
I do not take you. I take the
PS2. and the broken lamp. and your
shirt. I take no shit.
but my own shit.]
I take a blanket,
my good underwear
and a deck of cards.
I take my cat.
I burn the rest.
FriendshipFriendship is a tapestry
Woven through the years
With threads of joy and laughter
Happiness and tears
It's a work of art so priceless
It's shared by a precious few
Yet so easily created
By a loving friend like you
to nurse doe (whom we all know) i watched her
blood orange heart
cleanse and suture
old bullet wounds and
new bouts of lilacs,
lime, and blue
her alcohol and aloe
HomeWhat is home?
That is my only answer:
And all the things that involve:
the office with two computers
side by side,
the fireplace and the floor
where I sometimes curl up beside you,
the poetry books,
books on everything, anything,
the bed and the soft smell of your skin.
I need home.
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More