Extremely annoyed, and maybe other stuff
Aug. 19th, 2011 12:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
svaenohrWas trying to log in on the laptop. Entered same password I entered here. No idea why it's not working there, but works here. I am much annoyed.
Fay is thinking that we should try to post more. Get us out in front more often, since she misses us. I have never had much to say here. One thing I did gripe about is no longer an issue. All that's left to me is pining and poetry. Pining is very annoying. Perhaps I try poetry instead. Some of my poems, Fay submitted to Witches and Pagans magazine. They liked it, but didn't need it yet. I forget exact words. But good. I should keep trying.
This just came to me:
"What Remains"
By = Pi (Tristan A. Arts)
The sky turns to blood,
The clouds turn to ash,
The moon becomes a pearl
And falls out of the sky
Into an ocean of oil.
Our voices seek the quiet corners of your soul,
Wriggling around like worms,
Devouring your spirit.
We anoint thy body with the blood of the gods.
We bless thy soul.
We touch thy forehead,
And watch the maggots eat your eyes.
We would weep,
We would mourn,
We would plead,
But who would hear?
There remains only silence.
~ ~ ~
Heh. I think part of why I can write poems so readily, more readily than Fay, is because I don't care as much what a poem means, and I don't care about rhyming. The one above, I do not myself know what it means. It just came to me.
Fay is thinking that we should try to post more. Get us out in front more often, since she misses us. I have never had much to say here. One thing I did gripe about is no longer an issue. All that's left to me is pining and poetry. Pining is very annoying. Perhaps I try poetry instead. Some of my poems, Fay submitted to Witches and Pagans magazine. They liked it, but didn't need it yet. I forget exact words. But good. I should keep trying.
This just came to me:
"What Remains"
By = Pi (Tristan A. Arts)
The sky turns to blood,
The clouds turn to ash,
The moon becomes a pearl
And falls out of the sky
Into an ocean of oil.
Our voices seek the quiet corners of your soul,
Wriggling around like worms,
Devouring your spirit.
We anoint thy body with the blood of the gods.
We bless thy soul.
We touch thy forehead,
And watch the maggots eat your eyes.
We would weep,
We would mourn,
We would plead,
But who would hear?
There remains only silence.
~ ~ ~
Heh. I think part of why I can write poems so readily, more readily than Fay, is because I don't care as much what a poem means, and I don't care about rhyming. The one above, I do not myself know what it means. It just came to me.
