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poetoffire

What, me? Write too much?
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Literature

Chaneque

I've heard about you, little devil.  When the old women at the village exhaust the daily gossip, they turn to spooking each other with tales of you.  Men arrive at our trading town days later than they should, telling of tiny creatures that take them away, excuses to calm their scolding wives.  Or at least, that is what I thought.  Now I have met you. You look just like a child with your rough white clothes and small stature.  But when I behold your face, I find something ethereal lingering in your red eyes.  I once saw that unearthly hue in a sunset and it beckons me.  I tell myself you aren't real, but… Within me something stirs. I

All

73 deviations
Literature

Chaneque

I've heard about you, little devil.  When the old women at the village exhaust the daily gossip, they turn to spooking each other with tales of you.  Men arrive at our trading town days later than they should, telling of tiny creatures that take them away, excuses to calm their scolding wives.  Or at least, that is what I thought.  Now I have met you. You look just like a child with your rough white clothes and small stature.  But when I behold your face, I find something ethereal lingering in your red eyes.  I once saw that unearthly hue in a sunset and it beckons me.  I tell myself you aren't real, but… Within me something stirs. I

Featured

58 deviations
A Kiss In Hell

Photomanipulation

33 deviations
Literature

Immolation: a dialogue

You cried sweet yellowed glue when my fingers danced across these bindings and so I said: I will not scribble in your margins or blacken out the tender purple skin below your eyes where the veins and profanities show through. But I will throw you up let the fire catch your pages till the ink bubbles and runs floods each white expanse as it burns. I did not tell you how badly I wanted to be rid of your rough edges big colorless eyes, thin arms and run-on sentences. You tugged at the dog ears and bookmarks splayed around your neck and wrists like collars opened dying bookstore lips to say: I am not meant for your hands or th

Poetry

34 deviations