Angelfire115

He sits and hears. In works and work again, he hears His daughter cry to the staves. He remembers loss. She can’t. The rain patters against the windowsill, At once as rough as tempests And gentle as falling dew. The wealth of pain and suffering Has passed him by, by now. In his eyes, brief reflections Wash the brimming glass. His heart beats time to the Sordid soul he hears. But she is deaf, she cannot hear The private rhythmic beat he makes. She plays on. Crescendo, crescendo – Breaks to him through harrowed walls. ‘There can be no crying here,’ he thinks. ‘Not any more.’ And yet his tears flow from t

The next day wastes itself against the harrowed windows, rain lashing against the panes like a wounded animal. As the sun leaves the sky and the rain dies off, I think to myself that I’ll take a walk. Save me wasting like the daylight, I guess. My coat’s still wet from last night, but my apartment never was the warmest. People pass me by in the streets, ignoring the rain-clad figure that trudges his way down water-gilded pavements. Never been one for talking, so it suits me fine. I turn down a side street, headed to the park. Sitting out there in the cold is one of the only things that keeps me calm, keeps me sane; feeling that

Whispers of light drift into his room through the window, freezing into icy slats that lie across the floor. He slowly looks up from his desk, and for the first time that night his eyes flicker in this, the chilling moonlight that keeps him awake. It is not only his wish to stay conscious in the still-dark palette of night. It is the wish of his craft, the ever-kind taskmaster that sits and gently shames him against the page. His breath is cold; not with ice, but with words. He has been writing all night, and without a cause. His thoughts are delicately strewn over snow-white papers, leaving traces of where his story once was; it is not a

So, with great Christmas cheer, we make our leave And sit among, unclear, the endless weave Of presents stashéd here. Our shoulders heave As wrapping tasks are cleared on Christmas Eve. But it’s okay;        As long as hour’s work makes people smile,        And jumpers made are worn with gaudy style,        Then all the labour of the night’s worthwhile On Christmas Day.

Chapter 3; A Close Encounter 18th September, 1954 Having had an extraordinarily long and tiring talk with Lyman about my coming to New London, we bid each other adieu and retired to our rooms for the night. I had a unique latency to my actions, and so I set myself to bed and rested for the night. I woke the next morning to greet my room proper. Without the haze of sleep threatening my view, I perceived a curious surrounding about me. The room was pleasantly papered in a faint beige patina, and I found the carpet to be a plain and rich navy. The dresser, in which I began to arrange my belongings, was placed adjacent to the bed itself, to al

‘The world shames, cowers. Nobody is protected. I cry at night, screaming for life And an end to it all.’ The crowd clicks, and I sigh. As if this smog wasn’t enough, you could hear amateur poets flouting their emotions every half hour. I’d really doubted that this place would have held its integrity since last time I was here. Still, you could hardly expect less after the past ten years… at least the music is still good. I lie back comfortably in my chair, relaxing to the smoothest jazz in the city. I let myself laugh a little. It turns heads for a glance, but they’re more interested in the poetry. To e

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door… He blinked. Why should it matter that someone is at the door? After all, it was probably just his imagination. He was amazed he still had a door, in fact, what with all the wind and snow and such. By all the laws of probability, it should have been blown clean off its hinges by now. Ah well. Finding reality never was his strong point. He stood up and left his breakfast on the table, letting it sit cold and limp in the endless winter breeze. Despite having been toasted several minutes before, it seemed icy to his touch, so he lost interest. The news, which ha

A whirlwind Spring is lost too soon To errant Summer’s steady gaze. But see, none mourn the loss of her, For all her chills are turned to rays. And yet, in spite of bright degrees We find ourselves in Spring’s lament; Since we sacrificed her, Spring Has treasoned us, by Summer sent. Now, since the icy breeze abates, The Sun is free to roam; It paces, wild and predatory, Across our skin and home. And here, when Summer beats us down With bared teeth glinting in his rage, We call for Spring, adoréd thing, To fend away Sun’s pressured cage. But, that fickle season Spring Comes hotter still with passing time. Frail hop

‘What lies at the farthest ends?’ No-one will answer me; But I know it’s you. It could only be you; For when I breathe, I hold your air And you are here. When I speak, they are borrowed words And when I love, you claim my heart; Mesmerised, I’m yours. When your body is cold against my side I am not holding you; it is you Who steals my warmth. And when your breath is naked flame against my ear Your control writhes in my soul And I am frozen. And yet, when all myself is yours, You lay back to admire your work; I’ll forever stay enraptured. And when the ends of time approach They’ll see your smile inanel

I paint, and paint again, in dreams and hopes and yet in naught. I lay my unstained paintbrush down and pry my heart from thought. I hear screams from bloodless walls when not a soul is there. And cracks appear to break the floor like drains filling the air with choking clouds and noxious gas choking me and choking me but, yet again, it’s all elsewhere. I scream amongst the silent chaos mute destruction in my mind as I discover lost salvation; a sanctuary none can find. But STILL the soundless drumming haunts me, whilst I hide and grasp for safety, frenzied by the unvoiced screech of fires raging through the city burning me and chang