akrasiel

The city is sunsleep, Golden - her voice, her face As she steps down intricate cylinders Toward something only she knows. And the sang-ngiga who call Out from desert to desert tip She smiles upon like milk and honeysuckle From the bleakest fronds And caresses their skin, warm And she is a warrior, Wings that stretch a thousand cubits Wide and beat with the bloodpulse of nations Arc around the snarling lions Tamed by the touch of her hand, Protecting, always protecting That burning Gently-kissed nobleland. Through tunnels she creeps, Night and night for azure As the moondog slumbers heavenly Above and below The underworld and cool in shade,

in elementary school i had chased a boy around the playground because i had liked him. in actually, i didn't. i only made a fool of myself, made it seem like i crushed on him since my mom had said mean things about our neighbors at the time. they were both women and lived together. my mom called them lesbians. and though i had no idea what that word meant, i never thought they were bad people. across the street from our house lived a girl named sam. i was friends with her and we played soccer together. i stinked at it, but it was fun just hanging out with her. i thought she was so nice and i got this warm feeling when we talked. famili

The previous March Charlie Fitzroy was interrupted by a phone call as he pulled back from the front door of Blackriver Cottage. Trance music blared from the back of his jeans over the sound of running water: a stream, nicknamed the Blackriver after a historic oil spill, resided behind the house, lending the cottage its name – or so he’d read online. “Hello?” he said, his accent betraying his Eton education.   Yorkshire shone in bright shades of green around Charlie, who loitered on the cottage’s gravel driveway, his shirt sleeves pushed to the elbow against the heat of the afternoon. His black hair was brushed

lament a soul would be sullied (river waters muddied) to carry unyielding fire like the one that burns in a most sombre dusk that, although it howls detains all in grandeur it is auxiliary to power needed of living things and surely better than going home for waiting reprise then in the later time it returns in its truest horror, and burns the sky in fervent shades on the bitterness of coffee Jesus is like coffee Buddha is like tea.