Rust's profile

There is a woman in my head She is sitting on a bed in a room with padded walls and empty, whitewashed halls staring at the door with eyes that don’t answer when she’s called and don’t reflect what’s said There is this woman in my head who’s kicked her heart under the bed where it can’t be touched by anyone or blinded by the midnight sun staring at the door with eyes expecting to recognize no one expecting to see the dead I see the woman sitting on the bed her dark hair swept back on her head...

a forest coloured dark by the night has strands of moonlight strung across beds of needles and leaves where i can lie where i can feel like part of Her like Gaia coloured dark by the night as strands of moonlight snake across skins of earth and stone where i can lie where i can feel the touch of stars pin prickling on my body in the night with strands of moonlight slowly moving revealing me to myself where i can see where i can luxuriate in the sight of Gaia coloured dark by the night as stra...

In daylight found, the first cautious streaks of dawn tracing her body. Dark hair looking almost red, like blood, swept back and held by a small band made of leather and beads; fingertips of light on locks grown and brushed 100 strokes each day for years. Eyes closed, but that makes no difference, you already know what you would see in them now - twin coronas of a fingernail sun burning in mirrors of green glass. The Goddess truly touched this one at birth - held a dewy pearl of nature’s gift...

the city dusk breaks over the broken skylines sending the final shimmers of sun light creeping into the shadows home only the bright stars light the rooftops now, where wings fall silent and avian eyes are closed against any terror stalking the earthbound home “…such beautiful hair…” streets paved with nightmares awaken under Orion’s bow. “…too young to be…” walkers walk, talkers talk, stalkers stalk. knowing is covered in shadows, except where still working street lights and strip bars vomit...

On the road to Magdara, I saw a wondrous thing. Traveling by cart on a rutted road, there was time, time to see the roses creeping up the stones. People and asses and nags carrying their prizes to the doors of the shops on the road to Magdara. Some to sell, some to trade, some to keep another day. Each little hamlet kept an inn and a stable. This one was The Wayfarer. The last one was Traveler’s Rest. The next will be equally rustic, I’m sure. Close to each little hamlet, beggars would travel...