to be raw and bloody elegance

to expose flesh under dainty fingertips

to sweat the daily two cent sense

to sow and sew and reap and rip

to measure to all the measures a woman was ever measured

to then conquer all ideas of man as well

to pack away the paper walls of people quite assured

to be the girl that ascended, flew, but never fell

to search for not reigning gold, nor raining silver, but working bronze

to know to taste the sweet in stars and the blood in salt

to somehow be queen and bishop and knight and pawn

to never faint at heart for those who never faint at fault

Rarely I have

I hold

A Love

Rarely I show

On sleeve

My heart

Rarely I ask

Hands clasped

Of to you

Rarely I remain

Hand on heart

Hope still

So

Rarely I grieve

Palms brushing tears

When you are gone

I may be Russian, but I'm unconventional Russian. My parents grew up in the Soviet Union, but that does not make them akin to the villain in the movie you just saw. The Russians are not the automatic enemies of the Americans.

Even if a comment is not intended toward me, I still feel hurt when the Russians are mocked or made to be the worst antagonists of the beautiful United States. What has that beautiful country done recently?

You told me love

(Our love)

Stretched endless golden miles

Unbound

You told me love

(Our love)

Would hold my heart as you and I

Together

Unbound together

Age forever

Silken tether

From me to you

Then stars unaligned

And here in mortal stress I find

My loss open, my heart closed

Cracks in cradles in my mind

Sharpness begs me to kiss

To find salvation from chance rolled

To abandon caution for a coronation

As bitter Queen of Memory

But the roller- unforgiving mistress Life

Despairs to find that lover cold

Me, I forsake that Life

As Ruler of Memory

Instead I scatter lowly chance

To realms beyond the mortal eye

And thus escape from icy chains

Existing only in my memory

The drums are heavy, beating the echoing sky. The air is still. The earth is quiet. The sun bleeds into ever darkening shadows. In the growing dark, the drums seem louder. They assault the only sense you have left.

When all is painted truly black, you smile.

A girl, only seven years old, was chosen this year and she does her duty well. She strikes a match and holds it to a gasoline soaked torch. It goes up in flames, illuminating her dark eyes. She uses her torch to light another torch, which a boy standing next to her is holding. Thus the light spreads among the gathered people. The small flames hardly flicker; there is no breeze to speak of.

When all torches have been lit, a man steps forward to address the crowd.

“Citizens, will you come with me? Las Hypnas have come to San Rosa once again.”

The cries rumble as the group runs down the thoroughfare, torches in hand.

“Las Hypnas have come!”

To tell the truth would have made you an incredibly disfavored person here in San Rosa. To point out the how pagan the celebration of the self-proclaimed handmaidens of Hypnos, god of sleep and dreams, son of the Night. Or to call attention to the willingness of the people to let go of manners, inhibitions, and reality for just one night. That is truth. [But is it not also truth to say that you were out there with them?]

Let them have their night of playing with the witches. Call it a festival, a holiday. Call it rest to weary souls.

You run with them to that landscape of revelry, and you find yourself doubting none of it. Freedom makes any coward brave. Wonder makes any thinker a foolish child. [A happy child.]

Las Hypnas have set up tents of all sizes that stretch over a barren field. Dreams will grow here tonight. They are the most miraculous of colors never seen. They dazzle the eye and almost seem to provide their own light. They are stark against that blackened sky.

People pool in gaps between tents. No one sees or hears any sign of the famed witches, but in faith they know that they are here.

But one child [the same child that lit that first torch, as it so happens] decides that tonight she will not abide to wait and reaches outward. When fingers brush against silken cloth, she waits for a reaction to her boldness. None is forthcoming so she becomes bolder still. Cloth pulled aside leaves room for her to enter there and she is swallowed by hungry opulence.

The others take this as a sign to enter whichever tent has caught their fancy.

You examine the tent before you. Committing such a thing to memory is impossible and yet, still you try. Maybe Lady Luck smiles upon you, wisher of impossible on the night of the witches.

You enter waiting, longing, believing.

The air is hazy inside, as if it is full of smoke. The walls are the deepest blue and are covered in little lights that resemble stars. Looking closer you see constellations you recognize. [You reckon it is an exact replica of the sky outside.] A small round table squats in front of you. The table is plain; the wood looks old and is scarred from the years. Dents and scratches mar the table, but it is clearly loved. It has recently been polished with lemon scented oil. A crystal ball sits on the table, gleaming. The glass is completely clear. [A fortuneteller’s den this is, then.]

The ball rests on a map of the world. [Is it vaster than you remember?] You can not tell. The outside world seems so far away from here. Your finger gingerly touches the map. You trace a hard line between blue and green.

“A toucher, are you?”

You look up to see brilliant silver eyes looking back at you, amused.

“And how does the world treat the touchers?”

You smile and shrug. [How does the world treat all of us?]

La Hypna is beautiful yes, but that does not hold your attention. Only those ancient eyes, silver, purposeful, keen.

“Take a seat,” She tells you and you both do. She caresses her worn table, but keeps her eyes on you.

“Fancy yourself some knowledge of the unknown, wide beyond before you?”

“Yes,” You say simply.

La Hypna looks hard at your face.

“This won’t do at all,” She says in reference to the crystal ball. She sets it aside and sweeps her arm over the table, her wide sleeves dragging. Three cards are left in front of you when she moves her arm away.

The cards look weathered and a bit tattered but the painted faces remain stunningly beautiful. The first shows a man and a woman kissing. The second, a pair of bright blue eyes in perfect detail. The third and last shows a tear falling from a face toward a vast and unbroken lake.

La Hypna interrupts your study of the cards.

“In my life, I have only known humans to be in one of three stages, as represented by these cards. The Lovers, the Looking, and the Lost.

The Lovers are those in blessed contentment. They are those who can give and receive love in great and equal amounts.

The Looking are those in search of something or anything or sometimes nothing really at all. Whether they wish to find what they are looking for…

The Lost are those who find themselves apart and lonely. Sadness seeping from their souls. Needing light.”

You think on these groupings, pondering and awaiting the inevitable question. [The lovers, the looking, or the lost?]`

“Which are you?”

You have an answer.

As ink spreads across the sky

Rest your head against each other

Four in a row through tilted frame

Minds float in hazy, lazy, heaps

Heat blanketing almost sleeping forms

Until a hand reaches out and feeling sharpens

Hand on glass, cold stretching

A shift causes fellow occupants to align gazes

To haphazard, illogical, steps to the sky

Metal towers engaged to outdo

Each other but failing

Their novelty has tarnished long ago

But the lights within construct a parody of stars

And perhaps they win their ancient rivalry

As they exist undoubtedly more known to us

Then cold and distant stars

The mirror puddles full and round below

Fine, much finer than the asphalt ribbon

On which we travel

To continue thinking in terms of contest

Water triumphs over stone

Movement creates a low hum that

Reverberates through sleepy limbs

And moves the outside world to

New positions, drawing away

As ink spreads across the sky

Rest your head against each other

Four in a row through tilted frame

Minds float in hazy, lazy, heaps

Heat blanketing almost sleeping forms

Until a hand reaches out and feeling sharpens

Hand on glass, cold stretching

A shift causes fellow occupants to align gazes

To haphazard, illogical, steps to the sky

Metal towers engaged to outdo

Each other but failing

Their novelty has tarnished long ago

But the lights within construct a parody of stars

And perhaps they win their ancient rivalry

As they exist undoubtedly more known to us

Then cold and distant stars

The mirror puddles full and round below

Fine, much finer than the asphalt ribbon

On which we travel

To continue thinking in terms of contest

Water triumphs over stone

Movement creates a low hum that

Reverberates through sleepy limbs

And moves the outside world to

New positions, drawing away

By aslan and caffeine_chaos

Be still, lest the shadows creep

The candle burns itself asleep

Fantasies come alive to die

Flame to ash to flame again

Such is the weary wary way of men

The smoke will always flirt with sky

Be still, let the shadows creep

I fall I fall I fall too deep

I only trust myself to lie

                                                                                             The love I love does not exist

                                                                                   Behold the angels that do not weep

                                                                      Observe their faces, joyful, jubilant, and fair

                                                                                           On they stare and do not care

How many have pleaded and pledged

How many desperate

How many grieving

How many guilty, lonely

Dead

How many love us

                                                                                                                        I want you

                                                                                                               I would love you

                                                                                                              Let me know you

Listen to the words they spill

Seeping souls till gone

They only love us when they want

Tragic will continue the life it lives

                                                                                                                                   But

You know not

The world

Nor heavens

Nor hells

Of love

We may not leave this place

Chained as we are to mort

What is a chained life for joy on wings?

But that makes us not obliged

To suffer whims

For what your “love”

So needs of us

We wish…

                                                                                                                             A wish?

We are but sibilant sigils of sky

But make a sign of this

One life of love is meaningless

As inevitably consumed by death

Gods make ashes of wishes

How long will you stay with me I say, I say

As long as you'll have me you say, you say

Why to me, to me, does this ring false

It is not false I pray, I pray

As long as you'll have me 

(as long as I want you)

                    or

As long as you'll have me

(as destiny wills)

What can I say, I say

That would have you stay, you stay

All I do is pray, I pray

You do what you want anyway, you want anyway

I say

You say

I pray

I say

You stay

I pray

You want anyway