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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
May 2, 2014
The imagery from each stanza of The Ink Line by Adonael weaves the wide-eyed and curious story of a ten year old's summer dreams to create a visual feast of nostalgic words.
Featured by inknalcohol
Suggested by pulbern
Literature Text
Back in the first house I called my home,
I spied a map in the front window.
A glimpse,
Encoded and golden,
It spoke;
it's language the places I visited during the Summer.
We used to save the fish there,
Keep them from being caught by rogues
With eyes like toads,
Preying on the animals
By feeding them corners to huddle up in.
The Ink Line;
A place where lost time
Met frost vines,
Encompassing a lake
Made of
Gorgons’ eyes –
I froze...just looking at it.
Years passed. I read the tale of Gilgamesh,
Convinced he was speaking to me –
mostly. No, I'm certain.
"Paradise always felt lost to us" he’d say
"It’s why, as children, we sought it out each day."
And I knew the Ink Line was the place...
That warrior brought me dreams, warned me about a serpent
Due to appear in between the ripples of the water
And the reflection of the full moon.
It would consume me whole,
Digest me to places where you could only pay boatmen a toll.
All leading to a world of colossus with rifts and dreams
Where nothingness kisses the sedimentary.
I’d wander in,
Wading through rivers, sticks,
My thoughts waning thin.
I'd blame my being ten years young,
How I'd surrendered to naivety
For facing the right way
Wrong.
I guess I thought I’d glimpsed something...
Maybe some "immortality"?
Or maybe the word is too vague to capture.
I spied a map in the front window.
A glimpse,
Encoded and golden,
It spoke;
it's language the places I visited during the Summer.
We used to save the fish there,
Keep them from being caught by rogues
With eyes like toads,
Preying on the animals
By feeding them corners to huddle up in.
The Ink Line;
A place where lost time
Met frost vines,
Encompassing a lake
Made of
Gorgons’ eyes –
I froze...just looking at it.
Years passed. I read the tale of Gilgamesh,
Convinced he was speaking to me –
mostly. No, I'm certain.
"Paradise always felt lost to us" he’d say
"It’s why, as children, we sought it out each day."
And I knew the Ink Line was the place...
That warrior brought me dreams, warned me about a serpent
Due to appear in between the ripples of the water
And the reflection of the full moon.
It would consume me whole,
Digest me to places where you could only pay boatmen a toll.
All leading to a world of colossus with rifts and dreams
Where nothingness kisses the sedimentary.
I’d wander in,
Wading through rivers, sticks,
My thoughts waning thin.
I'd blame my being ten years young,
How I'd surrendered to naivety
For facing the right way
Wrong.
I guess I thought I’d glimpsed something...
Maybe some "immortality"?
Or maybe the word is too vague to capture.
Literature
They say the one who prays
They say the one who prays receives much more
than whom we pray for, shaping what we want
to what we get. We find a way to pour
the outcomes into candle molds we can't
have fashioned for ourselves. But then we light
the wax and sniff the scent and call us blessed
by blessings in disguise. For what is right
in contexts so complex we cannot test?
For those who say that praying contradicts
free will or undercuts the will to change
injustice, fine. You have no wax, no wicks,
no blessing and no curse, you are the sage.
I pray to sculpt the candle and the mold
and scent with pity earth and heaven's hold.
Literature
Fragile Magpie Moons
It's only spring when you first wake up,
two magpies and the dull ache of menstrual cramps
tapping on. Death's window
sleeps in all our bones,
a dripping water faucet.
Brittle things--like love,
marlboro midnights,
a jar of not-quite-nothing--
small and fragile and ours
are the presences we carry
while running from the moon.
Literature
Paper-Thin Promises
the first time I caught sight of your
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statu
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A poem about an old mining line near a neighbouring village. There is a lush country setting with a very mystical feeling lake. I always got a weird vibe from the place.
Enjoy!
Edit
Um...wow, I'm speechless. Thank you so much for the DD
I will try and get through the faves as much as I can. Expect llamas if you have not had one from me!
Enjoy!
Edit
Um...wow, I'm speechless. Thank you so much for the DD
I will try and get through the faves as much as I can. Expect llamas if you have not had one from me!
© 2014 - 2024 Adonael
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Your artwork has been graciously featured in Titans Genuine Literature feature ,stay wonderful!
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