i know it's nothing to do with wings or flight, but i saw a quote and had to write! okay i'm still rhyming. it's not perfect and in some parts the rhythm and/or syllables don't quite fit, but never mind. i wrote it in like, 10 minutes or so. ANYWAY, without further ado!

Rent-A-Boyfriend

So the formal is coming,
And you've got your dress,
But there's still that one thing
You need to impress.

He needs to be handsome.
He needs to be hot.
But with strings attached,
He needs to be not.

Now before you start crying
And think it's the end,
Allow me to introduce
Rent-A-Boyfriend!

He's charming, he's sweet,
He's everything you need.
You don't even have to be
'there for him' or commit.

Isn't it wonderful?
Sounds perfect to me!
Should you require our services,
call BOYFRIEND-FOR-ME!

EVERYONE! (: this week's theme is:

WINGS

have fun! (:

Enter the bent blossoms of summertime,
A nimble ballerina on their stalks,
They bow to swirling winds and flying locks,
A race to find courage in lemon thyme.
A crystalline waltz whirls through the meadow.
The sylphs’ flowing gowns ease tepidity,
Resting in the grass content to see
The azure backdrop of the cloud’s still show.
Exeunt breeze to welcome blustering gusts
Who dance with willows and laughter on wings
Of soaring sparrows and dandelion fluff.
The extras: bumblebees spread pollen dust
On flowers and petticoats and they sing
Until the fall; the earthen ground is rough.

And thus act two: dried leaves and hills of ants,
A soiled dress, clutching hands of branches snapped,
Ragged breath and flowing maple strength sapped
The beasts bear witness and the dark bird chants.
With muddy malice masked by underbrush
The gnomes march; percussionists, toppling trees,
howl through crumbling empires. The raptor sees
From battlements high above sorrow’s rush.
The thicket with long arms holds their captive
Prone and tears mix with dust; murky water
Brings life to shoots of hops. Encircling vines
Stifle silent screams and the soul they give
To moss and roots. Now Hespera’s daughter,
The last before the frost of nature’s signs.

Where fires freeze, ice burns the snow white curtain
And ignites the third with slithering smoke,
Flickering tongues and coal black eyes that choke
Hope from fennel and give birth to certain
Doom. Over the shimmering wasteland crawl
The salamanders, twisted with rage and
Blind confusion under Nemesis’ hand,

They seek redemption through flames and snowfall
And with crackling shadows, the air is thick.
As charred dreams scatter the blistered glacier
The serpents writhe beneath glowing embers;
They strike with fury and their poison quick
And cold smolders through perverted nature.
Numbness invades to chase the torched members.
Soaked Illusions. Listless pools
Of emptiness reflect the waiting ghouls
As they ebb from dying rue. The frozen
Chaos melts and nymphs lead the way to dark
Waters

Do butterflies cry?
Do they weep tears of
sorrow
saddness
mourning?
Could such a beautiful creature
with stained glass wings
show such grief?
No one has ever seen
these delicate beauties tear
except
for Children.
Children have new eyes,
innocence's eyes,
nature's eyes,
and can see a butterfly's depression
for our world
and what it has become:
a cruel and horrible place
filled with people
who never experienced
the remarkable event
of a butterfly crying
tiny crystal tears.
But
once in a while
we endure their tears when
a smile makes your heart melt,
a baby is being born,
new love is blooming,
strangers caring for eachother.
These are the wonderful moments of our lives
when our winged mourners
stop mourning
and fly into the beyond
to be our insect angels
of the sky.

Okay, the parts in italics are all quotes that I have shamelessly perverted for my own use. They are from a book called The Book of Enoch, which is a pseudepigraphal aporcryphal text written by, ironically enough, Enoch, who is in Judeo-Christian theology the great-grandfather of Noah. It's not a accepted Bible canon, but some branches of Christianity believe it is. It's really a very interesting read. If you want to, there are copies on the internet that are easy enough to find. Anyways, enjoy.  

He had killed men, that one with the face of a seraph and the heart of a demon. He had looked on, midnight blue eyes hungrily consuming their last moments and when, in exhaustion, they had given up their soul to God, he devoured it. None of his victims ever bought their pleas for retribution before the Final Court, because they never had a chance. He didn’t deny them their revenge, but neither would he deny himself the pleasure of their agony, that roared into eternity within his ears.

 

He had killed men, that one with the clean hands drenched in blood, who held them up to the light so as to enjoy the invisible flecks of red. He fells no guilt, for never was a creature so well suited to absolve themselves of guilt.  He was the master of more death than he would ever lay claim to, for there was no way to tally the family and friends who had torn themselves to shreds in his wake. He had never been indiscriminate in his killings, valuing order and logic over the shambles of passionate murder. Death was his mistress and a fine one she made. Together, they had danced across the world, her sweet song forever seducing him.

 

He had never regretted a death, and he had never forgotten one. Each victim was hunted, was selected on their merits. His favourite had been a whore in a back alley, skirt riding up and flat stomach exposed. She had been beautiful, equal parts grotesque and stunning, his skin white, hair black and eyes a honey gold. He loved those eyes, those eyes that were for mortal men and women a prison.

 

She has gone mad with loneliness, his little lost girl who had forgotten her name. She calls herself Rosier because she read it in a book once and liked how it felt. He’d almost laughed when he heard it. Did she ever know what it meant, this little lost child? Did she know she’d named herself for tainted love and seduction? Did she know her name was that of a watcher, of an angel expelled from heaven? He wished he’d told her they were named together. He rarely spoke his own name, for people did not see its power. Samael: accuser, seducer, destroyer.

 

When he held her, when he felt the smooth curve of her body and the shuddering as each bone broke, she had not cried. She hadn’t screamed as he slowly and meticulously took her apart, whispering loving words in her ear. She had simply wrapped her arms around him and breathed a little faster, as though she were making up for lost time. He loved her in those moments, in those moment where he held her fast, her arms cold against his neck. 

 

He believed in fate, this mortal Samael. How could he possibly not?

 

When he dreams, Rosier is still with him.

 

He stands atop a skyscraper overlooking seas of faceless people, each with their tattered wings dragging behind them, as though they were too heavy to lift. He can feel his own, dragging him down even as he tries to lift them. In his dreams, he knows the wings are useless and feels their loss as keenly as if he’d once used them.

 

She stands on the ledge, his little Rosier, her back free of wings, her soul free of the burden of the loss and sorrow that these tattered remains bring. Gathered around her are other people, other faces he has seen through halos of blood and night. They are all watching her.  She does not look as she did the last time you saw her. Her hair and body is clean, fuller and darker. She is more beautiful, more inhuman. Her golden eyes stare at him through a crown of black lace. Her clothes are always black, but she does not seem to morn. She smiles when she sees him and holds out her hand. He always takes it. He cannot imagine doing otherwise. Death may be his mistress, but Rosier and Samael are one. Normally, the stand together and look out over the beaten world beneath and he imagines she speaks his name, over and over again.

 

Tonight however, she does not offer her hand. She is sitting, hair blowing in the wind, her legs dangling over the edge of the building. He does not fear she will fall, after all, she has already fallen.

 

Open on her knees is a book, black and bound in silver. She was reading, her voice clear and calm. “I saw in my sleep what I will now say with a tongue of flesh and with the breath of my mouth: which the Great One has given to men to converse therewith and understand with the heart…”

 

The others, who have never before looked at him, stare. They laugh, their collective laugh high and piercing. He knows they are laughing at him. He feels betrayal, creeping on him like spiders across his flesh. He knows her words will betray him. He knows she is seeking her revenge, the only ghost he has ever created strong enough to.  

 

Golden eyes, full of love and hate follow the words on the page. He should have removed her eyes. He knows that now.

 

“From the days of the slaughter and destruction and, from the souls of whose flesh the spirits, having gone forth, shall destroy without incurring judgement -thus shall they destroy until the day of the consummation, the great judgement in which the age shall be consummated, over the Watchers and the godless, shall be wholly consummated." And now as to the watchers who have sent thee to intercede for them, who had been a foretime in heaven, say to them: "You have been in heaven, but all the mysteries had not yet been revealed to you, and you knew worthless ones, and these in the hardness of your hearts you have made known to the women, and through these mysteries women and men work much evil on earth." Say to them therefore: "You have no peace."'

 

From the sky above there comes a great screaming, as creatures fall, clawing and twisting at the air. And he with his wings torn as theirs, feels their cries in his blood and their loss in his heart and knows, in this dreamscape of falling Nephilim, what is was to fall from God’s arms.

 

Not a hair
Out of place
Not a blemish
On her face
She's perfect

Her clothes
Fit just right
Not too loose
Not too tight
She's perfect

Everyone
Wished to be
Just like her
Not like me
She's perfect

Her blue eyes
Like the sky
No one ever
Saw her cry
She's perfect

She lay
Deep asleep
She'd never snore
Not make a peep
She's perfect

Her skin
Once so smooth
Now was frozen
Couldn't move
She's perfect

Lay cold
In a casket
I had a question
Never asked it
She's perfect

She would starve
And exercise
Didn't know she'd planned
Her own demise
She's perfect

What I saw
No one could see
She blinked back tears
As she turned to me
She's perfect

She couldn't do it
She didn't care
She was sick of living
In such despair
She's perfect

She starved her body
She wore herself out
Couldn't find within her
The energy to shout
She's perfect

Spoke not a word
Fell to the ground
Rope biting into her nck
Made not a sound
She's perfect

It was a gamble
Life was the cost
The Darkness won
But she lost
She's perfect???

I looked into the mirror today and what did I see?
A freckled face red head, looking back at me

I wonder if she ever knows that she is truly loved
That even if she forever punishes herself in the dogged pursuit of
Bodily perfection, freedom from sin, purity of soul
She'll never have to attain such elusive things to be beautiful and whole

In her current body just as it is and the expansive reaches of her mind
There's already so much beauty and preciousness for another to find
She's a lovely person worth knowing and a wonderful intellect
Capable of so much life and joy, and deserving of respect

In the throes of her depression I find her sad and glum
And I want to shake her and hug her at the same time, bring her out into the sun
I want her to stop her self-destructiveness, her desire to empty herself
I want her to know she must learn to nourish herself and keep the demons out
I want to give her an embrace that doesn't let go, and tell her I love her
so
So that her tears may never fall again and self-love she comes to know