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The Caged Lion of Wonderland/Lost, Lonely ShadowI followed the rabbit through the hole in the ground.
I lost myself there, in the place that I found.
How silly it is, to go looking for what is gone, only to loose what is there!
And I'm left here to wonder, "why did I follow that hare?"
I dined with the hatter, as mad as could be,
Driven to the ends and beyond what the mind can see.
But a truth he did tell, directed at me:
"The you that you are is not the self that will be."
His message imparted,
I bid him farewell and departed.
But the face of a cat stopped me before the night fell.
A cheshire smile of one who knows all, but might never tell.
In dusklight we stood, not saying a word, nor making a sound.
And as day turned to night, he faded away into the background.
One thing he did say,
As he faded away:
"My grin may be wide, but yours will be doubled,
Once you remove your mask of the troubled."
I knew what he meant, but I pushed it away,
The thought was all that kept the light at bay.
And as I recalled the light,
Gazing at the moon
The Wind is Blowing/ The Lion's WakeDream a dream of simple lies,
And weave a web of sly deceit.
Play your part, create your ties,
And pretend you can't be beat.
For in the end, your feeble flame,
Will be oust'd by the roaring wind.
Because the day will come the same,
When you shall pay for all you've sin'd.
Do what you will to best prepare,
Because the waking beast has started.
You can't deny, nor lie, that you're aware:
That you have stirred the Lion-hearted.
And so I stalk and hunt my prey,
I will tear him, like a wind-borne flurry.
The trickster Fox, both old and grey,
Prepare yourself for the Lion's fury!
Project "Ad Infinitum"An individual who shall remain anonymous recently asked me:
"What brought about the existence of the clones who are featured throughout your series?"
Read on, to learn the origins of the DUSC Replicas!
Our tale begins in another plane of existence entirely; in a world called Demoa. In its long history, Demoa has never been at rest from the savage nature of war. Countries rose and fell, sometimes in less than a decade, and the political systems were always in a state of upheaval. Of the multitudinous struggles, one group of people began to distinguish themselves from the rest: "Infusers."
With the ability to command the very elements of nature itself, these warriors quickly became the mainstay of military force. A country with more infusers to back its ranks could turn the tides of war in their favor, no matter the number of their enemy. But there was a problem: infusion was not a common occurrence, and those who knew its secrets often died before they could ever pass on their knowledge
What's InfusionA term I've been throwing around a lot is infusion. But what is it, exactly?
Infusion is the manifestation of one's mental psyche. Similar to chi, or auras, our mental psyche is an ever-present thing that leaves us only in death. Everything that lives is possessed of it. "Mental psyche" is our state-of-mind; our willpower and resolve, if you will. And just as chi and auras may be harnessed by those select few who are sensitive to it, so may one's mental psyche be employed. Among the many different planes of existence that span throughout space, infusion is possible in only a select few, making infusers (those able to harness their mental psyche) all the more rare.
When manifest, one's mental psyche takes on a form based upon an individual's "elemental bond." An elemental bond, as its name suggests, is a particular affinity an individual has for one of the many elements of nature. Someone who likes water, for instance, would probably have an elemental bond with water. This is not always
Secrets Revealed: Project DuskGENESIS ORGANIZATION:
Organization devoted to the scientific study of genetic copies and their uses. Contains many different sub-groups each dealing with different aspects of cloning, or other genetics-related material.
The DUSK CLONING GROUP:
A military division of the Genesis Org. dealing with the mass production of clones, their interactions within groups of "pure-breds" (normal people) and their aplications as potential combat operatives. Also, recently developed methods for producing half-bred semiclones, as well as made new advances on the theory of "gene splicing."
A small-scale cloning project that is being carried out by the Washington branch of the Dusk Group. DNA samples of three individuals were taken and cloned to create five clones of each individual and mark differences between behavior, as well as develop new methods of gene research.
Abnormality Factor XI:
One of the DNA samples used for the production of five clones was submitted by an individual who's a
"TH1RTE3N": Revised 1-4"One story. Three lives. This is
CH.1: Perspective Overview:
Jay heard it, the sound of rain pounding against the window. He turned his head away from his work and looked out of the window. He could see the gray of the sky, looking ominously dark; the clouds were thick; not a single ray of light penetrated them. He got up from his workbench and walked closer to the windowhoping to see a flooded stairway. Sure enough, the ground outside near the steps was soaked and about an inch of water flowing off of them. Its a good day, he said to himself, smirking.
Weekends when it rained were always the best for Jay. April rain during a weekend meant it was time for the annual camping trip. The same each year, after the first storm of April it was time to go camping. It was a curious ritual, but the beauty of a gray sky always enhanced the trip, that is why it had to be raining. Colors seemed more vivid, grass was like a comfortable pillow for the fee
The Female SuicideTwenty years of nursing
emergency room wounds
and my grandmother
puts down her fork, rubs
her brow and tells me
the female suicide
is a more methodical,
A woman will close
the curtains, cleanse
their apartment of clutter
for the first time in months
and proceed to overdose
in the comfort of their
A woman will do this
because she is aware
someone will have to
discover her like this.
Someone will have to
bury her like this.
My grandmother says this
because when my uncle speaks
paramedic about the male
he pronounced dead from
a house’s television antenna
he never mentions a burial.
To you who writes until you bleed and cry and diei. You aren't the ruins of Greece.
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees or
ocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps into
your wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey hands
and silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider is
creeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.
ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.
You don't have to get why your wounds rot like
the speed of a full-on hail storm and why others
have bowstring smile and pretty eyes all the
damn time. You don't have to know why your
musical box blasts in gunfires and thunderbolts
while other have rose tattoos exploding in fierce
fireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. You
can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails and
scraped metallic heart. You can't love yourse
the cultivation of neophiliai.
give in to it:
the insatiable restlessness
that haunts, heavy
in a familiar corner
of your eyeline.
drive toward the night.
halt only when you
can no longer
trace paths of neon
from streetlight to fingertip;
never quite reach the
eventually, stop trying.
look over the paper city
resting fragile below;
tear it to shreds
with vicious intent
forget that you have
loved and hoped and
for a moment
there is only you,
the night, and the need
desire like you've
never wanted anything,
search for the novel,
for the fantastical
and the faintest hint
of something new
in the sky-glow.
stand so high atop
wonder how they do not
under the weight
of all this empty
A Ball Of CherriesImagine life
like a ball of cherries.
You can't eat many,
Don't rush to eat them!
Some are soft,
Don't go too slow, you'll lose the taste.
storiesi begin and end with stories
where hummingbird hearts play sonatas
against my ribs and i drown in
early morning light and
the girl in me sinks into the sea
like rusting anchors chained to
ships and i sway port and starboard
the lion in me rises like lazarus
from the savannah where dust swirls
and i begin and end with stories
where i swallow the world and all
the rain and girls and lions in it
where i hold it up like atlas,
where i support jupiter with just
an index finger and where i chase
comets and cup them like fireflies
to hang on my bedroom walls
Blooming Through CrevicesBlooming Through Crevices
People are characters;
their personalities are not to be cracked,
but to bloom.
Codes and signals
Setting our sights
On how to see
Through the cipher.
Optics opting for options
As opposed to conscious.
Ardor replaced by harder
To break through exteriors.
But mortality is only one facet
Of the entirety of humanity.
It is a compass of one being,
But merely a piece of the puzzle
That makes up human composition.
let us not break through empathy
with deductive methodology
but rather with the rhythm
of a honeybee whistling along the hymn
of the wind whispering in the leaves.
humanistic, holistic ideologies
is what the standard can be.
it is the notion of being a metaphor
rather than being something to decipher.
because there are more stars and galaxies
in poetry than there will ever be algebraic
expression curls up with ambiance
under the window pain of a picture frame
because we write more about
broken bones and broken birdsdragonflies buzz between
your tangled fingers
seeking nectar under
your chewed nails,
but the bitter burn
of almond acid will
clip their mosaic wings.
you're centered at
nature's core, a
centrifugal force of gravity,
grasping and dragging
lives to your unforgiving
you strangled the wild
whistling hare underneath
the billowing willow, and
your tongue tripped into
compulsive lies and disbelief.
i mean c'mon, clearly,
it was an accident.
if that's the case
the blue-eyed raven
that crashed to earth
after striking a third
degree burn, should
have survived, but you
plucked feathers from its
wings and drowned it.
you have a way with
decaying everything you
touch, your soul, my
heart, a puppy in a
cardboard box, yet
we all keep coming
back to you.
i think we all know
that even though you
bend and break and
bully the world, you
are the most broken
of all, and i just want
to fix you.
San FranciscoGood lord, how long I've slept this time!
And from what undiluted dream
full of free space and meadows,
brickless and feral,
lost in terrible infant whims,
streaking from trees to the hazel in the dusk,
have I come creaking to this ancient face?
If I ever find le sens de la vie
writhing underleaf in a crooked line of ants
or rippling in a koan made of cigarettes butts
then I’ll go back to San Francisco
and look her beggars in their pupils
and talk to her gypsy witch doctors,
listen to uningestible trumpet masters,
commiserate with the legless street congress,
revisit the subterranean shrine to urine
that sifts through the walkers at 2nd and Market,
and make love to some lost pearl of the Orient.
I’ll interrupt her philosopher queens as they serenade their oracles,
crawl in wretched street machines, carousel coins in rusty slots
that screech down to the wharf of the seal paparazzi
communing with dead architects of gleaming concrete miracles
Broken Glass/The Void Between HeartsWe are possessed of the tools which might guarantee we are never alone, yet we all lament in silence. Our solitude comes when we are at our weakest, while our friends embrace us only when we are at our best. We are all fragile and afraid of being broken like some small porcelain doll. And so we lock ourselves behind glass, that none might ever lay a finger on that most precious possession so central to our lives. It is safe, without pain, but also filled with suffering, because that glass separates us from those we care most for. It is only an act, that we falsely claim to be happy, because behind that glass, there is nothing. Only ourselves and the inevitable darkness and fear that reside in the heart of a hermit. Loneliness is not mitigated with age, it is amplified, so that one day it may drive us mad. And in our frenzied state, we shatter the glass cage we meticulously built around ourselves and run headlong into the world, driven by fear, madness, desire, and the all-powerful real
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More