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A Fairytale.Here she lay: poisoned, veins uprooted, with her heart open like the last blossom before the frost. The crystalline cold creeps its way to her very core. And pins her to her bed, frozen in remorse. Another springtime lost. Self-admonishment drives, pierces like a spade through her being. And she weeps. Without tears. For the well has long stood dry. And she sleeps. Without dreams. As the forest is set alight. Here, Another plain-faced resemblanceA Fairytale.
to a nameless sleeping beauty: Waiting, wanting, wasting away. And if she could return aga
by ~eldaliespirit
DeletionRegression. Strewn, lonely peices regain semblance as one moment returns to the next and returns to what was whole. Passing by moments already lived as they seek the daylight. Picking up fragmented self portraits, Like leaves, meant to blow away. To pull myself backwards out of this videotape. To rewrite this entire night. To erase this, the only evidence of my meddlings. To cut myself away from this. To rewind and push play. And the world would spin,Deletion
And the birds would sing, And the leaves will turn brown, And turn to the winds, away. And
by ~eldaliespirit
Body.I hate this skin I'm in. It seems more like a prison, than my mind ever did. But when my mind is free, I have no need for flesh and bone. World, I am here. Exposed and undone. And I am as the world and the world is beautiful. I dance to feel the rhythm of the beating of the pulse of my heart, the bass, my lover, the earth. I dance to feel human and to feel as one with all that is utterly inhuman. Raw, primal, magical. I dance, I trip, I fall. Because I am here. And I am nothing. And I am one with everything. &nbsBody.
by ~eldaliespirit
MachineSometimes beautiful things make me feel like dying.Machine
Sometimes I think I am already dead.
Just a body forced into motion.
Pulled by some invisible threads,
held by unknown hands.
The tightening of muscle on bone.
Weak lungs pulling coarse air.
The pulse of veins driving hot fluid
into a head full of air.
A machine driven beyond it's life span;
without fuel, without drive, without control.
...
Ticking.
Ticking.
Ticking.
by ~eldaliespirit
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- Current Residence: Wilmington, NC
- Favourite genre of music: Industrial, Trance, Rock, Celtic
- Email: sapphyre_synn@yahoo.com
- AIM: scarletXsands
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Want to purchase the costumes/jewelry that you see in my gallery? Check out my Etsy shop, Sagas and Steam Co., at:
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Une vie à me cacher et puis libre enfin
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Something Wikked this way comes...
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How come the best art comes from the most unbearable pain?
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