I don't really use DeviantART as a platform for reading literature, or displaying many. However, some have caught my interest and earned a place in my favorites. I am a visual artist and I enjoy literature that evokes imagery.
When the walls of whimsy are wallowing in wilt, while the weakened wills of inspiration and wonder wander within a witch-spell of woe, which road was worrying for your whim, where the wild stars wash upon the weal of your wanton way? Was the starlight and moon a reflection of your will? Or had the winds of winter come to wine water the sky with gray? When all the wisdom of the world within whispers your name, do you watch the sky and whisper back?
- Larathain Nai-lo Starlight
I whispered into the wind today by Larathain, literature
Literature
I whispered into the wind today
I sent you a message today. I wonder if you've heard the whispers of the heart on the wind. I professed the power of purity within the call of chaos to carry the curious connection of consciousness to the chord of your heartstrings. I whispered to the wind a wish of will that weal would wander in a wash of wonder and walk on until the weight of morning softly replied the night's sleight: "a low glow breaking through the horizon". A struggle in silence that knows echoes in notes of light, and always knowing one survivor by sight. I strain to steer somewhere near the dawn, strength still holding by will alone, seeking the symphony of sight that
The dirge
drumming beneath my ribs,
a tepid drizzle
flooding the hollow cask,
each drop
muffles speech,
seeps into languid lungs
too tired to sleep and
too broken to breathe.
I stand fallen
for lack of gravity's caress
as she lies dreaming,
if indeed,
her solemn slumber
can conceive the flame
long after
the candle has whispered
goodnight.
The eager morning
blooms
in vibrant shades of gold and green
as I am withering
in billowy swathes of black
and blue,
a phantom formed of memory
no more a thought
than a drifting shadow
beneath
a blossoming sun.
She,
a once florid garden
now encased within fourteen letters
etched into rose stone,
a name
wh
I live in a world of fear.
I am not the only one who is afraid; no, every person here fears the night, if not for themselves then for someone they love. Mothers fear for their children, husbands for their wives, children for their sisters and brothers. No one fears for their friends; no one has friends anymore. No one dares.
It wasn’t always this way. I remember days before the fear, before the world was so paralyzed with its own terror that it forgot how to live. I remember walking through a park after sunset just for the pleasure of it. I remember being late for an appointment without anyone beginning to plan my Memorial. I remember
she sells 9mm shells by the seashore,
says she can hear the ocean.
but if you listen close to these shells
you can hear ghosts.
something borrowed, something blue,
something broken, something bruised.
she traces her fingers across the autopsy scars
while she counts her bones like currency.
she'll leave your skin screaming,
and sink into the whites of your eyes like a shipwreck.
can you hear the ocean?
psychology defines schizophrenia
as an impairing, delusional disorder
borne in the person’s inexorable inability
to tell right from wrong,
hopeless fantasy from harsh reality,
or even suspicion from acceptance
but aspen is a lovely, flexible woman
with names of imperial animal races
that never belonged to them,
with the countless colors of her eyes that
she makes up with named numbers
written in cursive sharpie on her palms
she takes pills that seem to
dampen & take away those charming
things she always says to me;
the voices don’t haunt or tease her,
they’ve always respected the way she
counted with willpower & the way sh
my mother tells me that i should be ashamed
for dipping my baby carrots in salad dressing,
that my food doesn't need the salt i sprinkle on it.
my afternoon tea doesn't need any sugar, skip
the lemonade and drink the water instead.
do you really need that?
her sharp tone echoes like military orders in the face of combat.
she tells me that at my age, her jean size was half of mine
and i resist the urge to tell her that maybe that means she
had half the character i do.
shopping with her, she butts heads with a body-image complex,
telling me to quit fooling myself and pick the next size up.
i shock her time and time again when i cram my