Reposted from here. After La Cloche fêlée by Baudelaire Her pleasure is all, warming the long nights of winter at a fire that burns bright distant memories. Blessed daughter who, in love with her youth, throws faithfully her voice into the open mouth of her lover. Me, my soul is wracked with nonexistance. I watch
Reposted from here. This is my #whimword entry for this week. As always, I’ll be reposting it on Scriggler and Medium, so keep an eye out there, too! Also, as always, don’t forget to check out my Unbound page, where you can find out about and pledge on Abernathy, my debut novel: http://unbound.co.uk/books/abernathy Carol scrunched
Reposted from here. Wind billows Rain grey Through London streets Chasing umbrellas Making fools. Slush, silent, Hushed, silence. Devoted heads bowed Waking early Working late. Dark day turns over, Dark night Unnoticed, ice sparkles. A dream of frost. Jack leaps. On gentle winds Now Christmas, Delicately through the streets, Stretches fingers Touches down. The snow
Reposted from here. A distant orange burn began it as we walked over white frosted grass. We had just seven hours, forty nine minutes before we lit candles. A fire. A single day and night. Together. Stretching out long as our shadows across the park’s pay and display. The two of us. Ahead. Snatched seconds.