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The StairwellThe Stairwell
there's comfort in the basement
where days of old are sleeping
waiting for shining resurrection
from their carpet fiber graves
challenges call from ceilings
waiting on levels i've never seen
and as i lie here in the stairwell
i fold myself away - concerned
i'm far from where i came to be
where my head rested on pillows
all made of snow and familiarity
i've been clawed so far from there
trapped in ovens and fireplaces
soot building castles in my lungs
my wirebrain lies there in the stairwell
and a buried laughter sings for me
no decision: i'm torn, i'm torn, i'm torn
home is gone and fading is the place
where i'd hung my hat on stalagmites
and curled over myself in protection
and as i lie silently - i'm quiet now
i see all those old things leaving
and in the stairwell, i crawl upward
my comfort isn't something to swim in
Season's RedemptionSeason's Redemption
i'll pay homage to the fallen me
and i'll drop flowers at my grave.
then i'll return to that place:
where chalk lines of me are drawn.
i had walked this earth a ghost
for days and days and one year.
my soul was ripped out of my eyes
and for eons after, i was blind.
on my tombstone, i etched it in
with the knife he used to slay me:
"Died from loss of identity. 4-14-10
At approximately 4:30pm."
and when he finally returned after
one billion tears had been shed,
he let answers slip through the cracks
of keys as he typed hollow words.
inside i'm still tortured by days
when thinking of eating disgusted me.
when i sobbed until i'd been zombified,
i clung to the things that burned.
he never knew just what that was:
the pain i felt as i hung on his sleeve
and begged for sweet resurrection.
i still hope he gets his share.
my world crashed in heavy chunks:
the sky fell, trees withered, i died...
though Earth was peering into spring,
believe me, i can almost taste it:
that crisp air - crisping still
of the homeland i reluctantly left
a place hanging from my heart
like the hook in Salmon's lip:
metal, cold, with a lake water taste
all those memories i've gathered
like stones; like shells; like flowers
i can smell those times, even now
believe me, i can close my eyes
and see myself: looking out
my window at the maple trees
i recall how hard i had begged
for budding leaves to grow for me
as if the sleeping beings could hear
the summer air still stings, you know
from back then, you remember
and i watch myself cry on the stairs
believe me, there were better times
yes, tart and cinnamon autumns
when school meant to stand in windows
the muddy springs whisper things now
like i should be redeeming a prize
for the anniversary of the day i died
familiar places hold gifts for me
some hands are old - others skeletal
bearing hearts that stopped beating
believe me, not all is that o
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More