Midnight Dark and Mysterious, the clock strikes twelve, all is dark and calm. The own scratches
at your window. Time stands still, an endless dream of sorrow and desolation like a fog that
never lifts. But above all else solitude takes over.
All are peaceful, sleeping away their troubles. Some are out on a secret errand, a mission
they can never tell. Yet some enjoy a late night feeding, while the rest go on, ever
dreaming. Others drown in thought, pondering on the day in the store, or they try to rid the
thoughts of the day before.
Darkness fills your eyes, silence roars in your ears. The night air is so thick you can feel it
pressing down on you. You stand still unable to react.
-Andrew Zane McCabe
Further From the Embrace of Open Wings On the canvas of this time, a deeper shade of ink, thick. Desolate. And distant.
The kitty lost in the holly wood, tracing its footprints in the snow, designing a portrait of
a nevermore faithless ever.
Slit in a fog. Listen, you will hear the glistening snow casting from thick redwood trees,
fallen, lost.
Count down this hour with each new tear, in the measures of our beating hearts.
The onlookers shuffle like cars and search for position in view of sunlight splinters, taking
one�s tragedy as to headlines they�ll read to remind us of life we�ve lost.
In this blackout we will hold memories.
And I remain. Reflect from ice, dare we repeat the trace of the blade, of blinding sorrow.
Sight within first slight stroke of a more razor as in the speech writer�s touch. Notes traced
to injuries on out strained glass hearts.
In this blackout, the time we let go, pass by slow, like our last lullaby.
As the blood freezes in my veins, but should hope melt� and drain. Faded, the creek runs
dry.
And in this blackout, new records, new records wither to needles, playing over father�s voice, mournin in
the back of my mind.
And I�ll fade like the first negative of the photographer�s album.
In tis blackout, Winter was a boy of misery, I cannot inhale.
-Brett Robertshaw
The Magazine Goddess Eyes like a magazine goddess.
promising adventures
you won�t verify
verbally.
Teasing him with
your beauty.
Making him
want to touch you.
How can I compare?
Common Sense
and average looks.
He craves the
exotic, even if
it burns away
his soul,
changing him,
making him pitiful.
I stand by
and watch
as you tarnish
the perfection
he ignored
in himself.
He wanted to
be with you,
for you to
make him perfect.
You were his sun,
his goddess,
a pagan deity.
But now,
now that he�s changed
just for you,
and no one else
seems to want him
you cast him off.
I stand by
and watch
this shell of
a ruined man
crumble in on himself.
Once beautiful, perfect
he only wanted
your perfection.
Your glittering
deadly beauty.
You taunted
him with it.
He looked in
your magazine eyes
and read
the unspoken promise.
The one
you never intended
to keep.
-Cera 7
