Aquitius

Quicker Than a Ray of Light

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Literature

The Land and Hills are Grey

There is rain over Norway and Finland; the simple, steady rhythm calms her heart. It's bedtime now-- she disappears in a puff of smoke underneath an empty sky.

Literature - Poetry

208 deviations

Paintings and other Traditional Art

451 deviations

Literature

Rituals

I lay on my back staring at the bright ceiling, watching smoke float skyward as it escapes my chapping lips. I resist the urge to look outside to the lucid stillness of the night. The glass of the windows my only protection from the inky blackness that threatens to swallow me whole should I stare too long. I feel myself getting tired, but I plan no seep this night, though I know that the monster of fatigue will surely come to claim me soon enough. For now I will hold fast to my consciousness and inhale this putrid gas into my already sickly lungs. Watch it dance around the room, lace around me with the promise of choking and seep deep into m

Literature - Prose and Other

51 deviations

Digital Art

290 deviations

Picked You Up

4 deviations

The Land and Hills are Grey by betwixtthepages, literature

Auditory Poem by Kreatress, literature

Literature

Auditory Poem

[Glass shatters. As if an empty bottle had been thrown from the window of a passing car and smashed on the asphalt. Gravel under friction. Tires of a car moving slowly to an intersection. Zooming cars. A leaf blower in the distance. A window screen slides up. The wooden structure of a house creaks softly as a person leans out the open window. Leaves that block the street from the window's view rustle. The house creaks again, the screen slides down. A computer keyboard clacks under the pistons of human fingers. A flock of geese honk and flap their wings. Cars below pay no mind. Songbirds chirp. Faintly, a heart beats. Three others in the

food for thought we won't eat by camelopardalisinblue, literature

Literature

food for thought we won't eat

i can't make you love me. they say I'm guilty, the rape of persephone too distant to be seen, is a gravestone thumbed flat. if my heart is an album, every song features you, an embroidery of spirit, science and faith. you are not a boy to make poetry for but when it rains I want to wake up, and not be alone-- the poet's demise, the chalkboard and a jar of not-quite-nothing.

Living - Escape by HowToBeRadiant, literature

Strength in All the Wrong Places by Tanashai, literature

Literature

Strength in All the Wrong Places

Those muscles. I know them well: once they lifted the heaviest burdens from shoulders stooped and grave without any effort without any sweat. Then they began to work out. And work until they grew pale; and lost a drop of salt- maybe two-sometimes three. And they became strong indeed. Ironic then that, the stronger they were, the more atrophied they became. Until they could no longer even lift an eyelid.

Perfection by mouseluva, literature

Literature

Perfection

If I could be perfect, then this would be fine, right? Right? If I could be perfect... If I could be perfect, maybe the trees would hold their leaves and the sun wouldn't destroy the rain. Everything could have an equation, like the curves of my hipbones and the lines of slashed skin. The stars would always show but the world would not burn away. Can I wash this from me in a torrent of rain or some liquid unknown? Pull my hair from its sockets and burn the past with fire. The cold will freeze us soon. Freeze my heart back to the stone it once was. Immovable, indescribable, obsidian, or some dark stone born of a volcano within.

Rainstorm by mouseluva, literature

Literature

Rainstorm

Sitting under the playground in the park in a rainstorm. It's dripping a lot, but otherwise isn't too bad. The sun is shining through a thinner cloud behind the branches of a tree and the wind whips the parachutes of the surfers around like a leaf in a jet turbine. Someone's hit the mute button on the world. The cars' wheels on the wet tarmac, the ocean on the sea-weedy beach, and the drip drip drip all around me and onto this paper are the only things I can hear. I was wise to bring a pencil. I wish I could record what my senses are picking up now and play it back to you, the sombre and almost eerie beauty. The waves have white tops and the

Leashes and Dog Collars. by rockandrollover, literature

Monsters by mouseluva, literature

Literature

Monsters

There are monsters everywhere. You can't hide. They lurk in shadows and under the words of pretty love poems. They are the "but" at the end of "I love you." They pulse through your heart with every beat. "I hate... "I hate... "I hate..." They don't even have to put the magic "you" on the end before you try to wash them out in the shower; to bleed them and to carve them out of your flesh. Maybe it's time to lose myself in the dark of the night, time to surrender to the fears that lurk around every corner. Maybe it's time to give in.

The Smell of Coffee by mouseluva, literature

Literature

The Smell of Coffee

Fingertips in the hollows of my collarbones and curves in the fullness of my spine. Quietly, quietly, tiptoe around the whispers. Find love under the kitchen sink and beyond the bathroom counter. Behind the papercut kisses and between the folds of the fabric. Find it in the leaves and the trees, and the buzzing of the bees. Find answers in the unknown and in the discontinuous curves drawn on unlined paper. Find me waiting beneath the tea leaves at the bottom of the cup and dancing in and out of the products of the complete combustion of a hydrocarbon. I'm projected isometric and projected to the future. I'm projected to an architect and lo

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