princess, alone in her tower,
sharing her song.
those lucky enough to stop,
listen.
words strike the heartstrings
like felt hammers on piano wire,
infecting you with her song.
your song calls back,
and the princess listens.
for that brief exchange,
the tower dissolves
and she is not alone.
What follows is a copy/paste from a 2003 LJ post. Enjoy?
I’m new to the group. I’ll likely be a lurker at best… and just ignore the group at worst…
But, here’s my skinny.
1) I’m *ancient* 32 at last tally.
2) I’m a Cure fan.. but not a fanatic.
3) If Only Tonight will always be my favorite Cure song.
4) I was introduced back in 1987 with the KMKMKM album. After that, I went back and got all their older stuff. And cursed most of the newer stuff after that point. Since then, I’ve matured quite a bit and like almost all of their stuff, old *and* new.
5) I’ve only ever had the pleasure of attending one concert… and boy was I disappointed. That is what this post will be about…
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Rain on snares meters the pace.
Smooth, rolling, blue.
The sax man wails.
A smoke-filled club . . .
And the night . . . melts . . . into yesterday.
Time flits through
On wings of an old song.
The ivory tones chase strings of gold
Through the gentle, crashing waves.
While we race the bleating brass,
The bass line leads us home.
as I slip into the night, the water crashes in around me.
my lover’s body is inches away, yet millions of miles split us.
the chasm of desire lost.
the void of lust drowned.
the pit of love fading.
The holes these leave are filled with naught,
a draught to wash away the pain.
jet black, inky darkness envelopes the last ounce of joy
pure moments of true happiness are fleeting at best
dull, lifeless routine, is de rigueur.
how can anyone survive in this guise, let alone truly live?
Hiding. You deal with your depression by wearing a
mask. No one ever knows you’re depressed, so no
one can ever pity you. On the outside you’re
calm and collected. Inside, your blood boils…
But that’s ok, as long as everyone thinks
you’re normal.
I look up, from the bed, lying in silken folds of fabric.
The velvety golden-purple palette of sunset frames her obsidian silhouette.
The soft, white halo surrounds the luscious curves of her body with perfection
A frozen moment, stained into memory, an oil painting without texture.
bowl of fruit, balanced with delicate precision
light on the apple, turning red to white in harsh contrast
rough skin juxtaposed with silky smooth
slender and tall tops the squat round green
landscaped cloth coats the mahogany boards
depression glass bowl keeps epicurean treasures
frozen in time, never to nourish the body, forever to nourish the soul
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