writes

Child of Sweeping Fire and Summer Echoes

She was fierce as feral flames, fangs without the jaw, a burning star, a speeding car, sounds of fire crackles and familiar music. Each strand of hair upon her head held a story doused in color, her eyes hypnotic and starving for every experience this world can offer her.

Each turn of the Sun was a metamorphosis and every peek of the Moon a chance to howl and scream into the night, a grin spread wide.

Summer and sand favored her heels, leaving dusty hot imprints on the balls of her feet. Across the heat, as fast as air can bring her, she rushes towards unfamiliar depths, nearly fearless of the blue, nearly fearless to die.

Scars on her elbows and knees and palms would sink in salted water and leave peeled off bandages as a path to follow later on.

The child of Sweeping fire and Summer Echoes, may your days in the sun be ever hot and bright. And as you walk past the shimmering shores and muggy mid-day fog, may the fish guide you from the sea as well as up above.

writes

Prince of Ink Stains and Soft Wind

He is of fair face, fair as willow maiden hair and a voice once kin to the wind, but captured and enveloped within the most delicate of wind pipes.

They say he moves like windchimes, pleasantly swaying to where ever he sees fit, only to return in one piece when the orchestra of adventurous air ceases to play.

Skin like oil paint, smooth and perfectly toned to capture every length of celestial light, no matter where he turns.

And tangling between his fingers and spilling from his lips, light blotches of softened petals bloom on the branches of saliva from his mouth. 

They cascade down his figure from an inky fountain within his mind, endless and ever-growing, a deep, dense coal-toned abyss that brings life to every feature of his always changing body.

He is a prince; a prince of ink stains and soft wind, Of delicate lifeforms with black-bolded bones, 

Of intertwined words that slip the mind, only for him to draw them back deep inside.

a day in the life

Sundays are for the Heathens

Hello Heathens. It’s time to consider some things, particularly the things that make you a heathen or not.

I cannot just let any meandering soul into my home. My home, my temple is no open-house party and I’m sure any creature can understand the sacredness of that.

So now it is time for a test.

For my heathens, show me a flower. The first flower you see when you step outside. Show it to me however you wish, but I must see it. I will know if you are lying to me.

For the rest of you, partaking in this is none of your concern. Simply click on this blog, read a sentence, and leave as you usually do.

 

Heathens, you have 3 days to complete this.

 

-Cap

writes

Ode of A Luna-tic

To my dearest,

Its been quite some time since we last spoke, almost nearly a decade. It’s been so long that I’ve started to forget what you sound like.

I truly miss you, dearest. Every time the night draws near, during the deepest hours where everything becomes still, that is when I think of you the most. Your silvery hair and night-dyed eyes keep me awake. I see them imprinted in the air, floating towards the ceiling. I know that isn’t you up there, but sometimes, when I’m lying in bed alone and thoughtless, I reach my hand out to your apparition only to be met with your figure distorting like a dissipating fog.

Why must you torture me like this? Plaguing my mind during the night when the sun is no longer up high to guard my thoughts from you? It has been so long that I would hope to have forgotten you completely by now, and yet, here you are. Not quite alive, but not quite dead either. A marble statue in the core of my memory, standing tall and ever present. I can speak and beg and cry to you all I please, but I will only be met with an empty stare, lifeless chest, and cold marble skin.

Oh dearest how I long to see you once more. To hear your bell-like voice chime through my ears and send shivers down my spine. To sing me to sleep with your dreams that float from your mind and prance onto your lips.

But you are gone, dearest. Yes you are gone and never to return to my arms for you were never there to begin with. All I have is the light that shines above my head when the night comes by, lights that dare not interrupt the suns daily course. These lights I shall remember you by each time I lay my head and peer out the window. And the moon, yes the moon. May the moon be my reminder that, somewhere, you are waiting for me, up high in the sky like a celestial body deep in slumber.

So goodnight my dearest, I feel much less alone now. May you rest fitfully and may you dream the sweetest of dreams for me. May you be bright, my dearest, and if your light does cease to shine one day (as it someday will), I shall take you in my arms and shine for you.

– Ode of A Luna-tic

a day in the life

Happy UnSunday.

Good Morning, my heathens. Have you all been well? I’m sorry I’ve been gone for quite some time, dears. I assure you, however, that I haven’t forgotten about any of you in the time we were apart. Time is simply a fleeting being and had beat me two Sundays in a row.

Our current state of affairs is really something to ponder over, my heathens. I, for one, am very fond of doing so with you all. But let us take a break from that. Instead, we’ll ponder over more pointless things.

Such as love.

love is a notion, a musical number, a thoughtless book, an empty word. I don’t really care for it just as I don’t really care for okra or patchouli. It’s distasteful, bothersome, and absolutely illogical. I particularly despise those who become blinded so easily by it, not even bothering to put up a resistance and instead totally and completely falling victim to it. I can’t stand such infectious, incurable viruses.

To let the very word slip off your tongue means to show susceptibility to its effects. Be cautious, all of you. You can be infected right in this very moment and not even know it. Be courteous and meander on over to the nearest quarantine chamber to gas yourself with a numbing solution so that you can stop the spread of such a dangerous infection. Only you can be the cure. Call your local heathens today to receive a consultation. Only you can be the cure.

 

-Cap

 

 

 

writes

An Ode for the Girl Who Glared At Me

Do you know what it’s like to cry for a stranger? It’s the strangest feeling in the world, my heathens… I’ve done it before, many years ago. I wish I could do it now. The only feeling I can manage now is a slightly more empty soul and a feeling of restlessness.

Her sensations still linger as wisps and fragments in the places she used to sit, in the people she used to speak to…

I didn’t love her. She was just another voice in a room, another hilarious pun in the hush and stillness of awkward confusion.

But her absence still has weight. A weight that can be passed by on a mere glance but the more you focus on it, the heavier it gets.

I barely knew the girl who glared at me those many years ago. Her slim, petite figure and flaxen hair are all worthy of the minuscule memory she has in my mind. The jumpy eyes and bored-to-death tone mingled with her baggy hoodie and sweatpants that hide a lightly blemished face, every detail becomes more obscure the less she is here.

I barely knew her, my heathens. Barely. All I know of her are the whispers of her friends and the slight movements of her falling out of chair from the corner of my eye. That is all I will ever know.

We may not have known much of the other, but I will still hang my head for her. The dead deserve respect, my heathens, from the unorthodox to the unspeakably plain. All life is meaningful and the extinguishing of it must be commemorated.

So hang your heads, my heathens. Close your eyes and send her fleeting soul your best of wishes, your fickle goodbyes, for when the time comes when she can no longer be sought, she will be totally and absolutely gone.

-Cap

In honor of A.