I view myself as dust And fall away. Like a reflection of glass This spirit of indecision Conjures itself within me. I am like a serpent of temptation Simply waiting for a victim. Where do you linger now? In dream, my angel? Where does your desire take you? Far from me, and close? Even as my eyes hold you Do you ever slip away. The construct of my mind Penetrated by expectancy Dispels each sense in turn. Illumination waits with blinking eyes I am cut in two Becoming a twin of myself. All of t...

Your sweat was an elixir And I was alive Under your body Alive Under your hands Fingers on my flesh And your flesh was my bread And we swam And we swam Through the flood You wear me warm wear me Thin wear me wicked wear Me out and I hold you within But your eyes are my gemstones Touched the back of your head And pulled you into my smile I shine I shine Shine in your hands Shine Like that fire on your chest Burn and shine As you create me Create me In the image in my head Phenomenize me as new...

Aethier set off for the Great Castle alone and on foot. Having spent the last few days alone, she considered her upcoming meeting with Lord Curtea with equal amounts of anticipation and dread. Mordel had not returned, and she wondered where he had been finding his shelter. It wasn't unusual for him to stay away from their castle overnight, but his absence had been long this time. Somehow, Aethier knew he wasn't coming back soon. She wondered if she would ever see him again. Although her jour...

Aethier remained in the Lord's Castle. The last thing she wanted was to be alone, and as an orphan and outcast among her people, she had no other friends or family. She grew accustomed to her new surroundings, and Mordel’s absence, with an ease that surprised her. It was as though her mate was simply out. She had been, after all, quite used to his absences. They were in the large music room of the Lord's Castle and Aethier was working on the composition she had been writing the day Mordel se...

Through frost-covered windows, they peered directly into the fading sun, drawing the curtains around their faces as if the action would hide them from Julia's view. She could sense them, of course, and they had to know it. Still, they persisted in their feeble attempt to hide themselves. Julia’s dress gave her station away: she was a Mistress of the Lord’s Castle. And that she was a Mistress meant that she was Mara. These people were food to her, and so they locked theirs doors and prayed, ev...

Through frost-covered windows, they peered directly into the fading sun, drawing the curtains around their faces as if the action would hide them from Julia's view. She could sense them, of course, and they had to know it. Still, they persisted in their feeble attempt to hide themselves. Julia’s dress gave her station away: she was a Mistress of the Lord’s Castle. And that she was a Mistress meant that she was Mara. These people were food to her, and so they locked theirs doors and prayed, ev...

They were like little rodents, circling the table non-stop: circling, circling, circling like ring-around-the-rosy without any words, just that non-stop, incessant, high pitched wailing of which only undisciplined middle-class children are capable. High-class children are too snobbish for the wailing, while low-class scamps manage it in such a pathetic Les Miserables manner that one is automatically driven to call it art. But these were middle-class brats, neither elitist in their screaming, ...

Mirakka Siryon wrote the last page in his journal that he would ever write. He smiled, perhaps a little bit coyly, though no one was there to appreciate the gesture, and closed the covers against the story contained therein. Though only a few years old, the journal might as well have been a relic for how torn and tattered it was. Yellowed pages hid uneven edges beneath blood red leather bindings. Mirakka had chosen the color himself – he’d long had an obsession for deep red. Perhaps it was su...

I would crumble my thoughts Before your outstretched hands, I would bite my tongue Against the words which rise From my throat, Just to watch you drown in emptiness. So much spent in supplication. Such sweetness you have devoured, Raped of meaning, Seeking pride to tear into yourself. Such words, such little motions, Symphonies break into dances – You are the choreographer of rivers Opening into voids. Such waiting you commit to this, To watch the well rise and drown itself, To inspire action...

Unable to touch even destruction, The body fails capacity of mind. I waver in remembrance and hope I will not lose myself. What is me is taken, Twisted – Existence is a maze Of thought, A virtual reality of nothingness In which spins the true form – Aetheric “I” which screams for recognition – Open it.