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LOVEIt is hard to write,
about this feeling impossible to fight.
The sword by pen beaten in might,
when in the darkest hours of night,
the strength of love the only light.
All the words I cannot use,
my hand stilled by my muse,
for if described I shall abuse,
this feeling that I cannot lose,
if only by the hangman’s noose.
Deep inside my lonely heart,
split the seams and fall apart,
as another name added to your chart,
the pain and invisible, weeping mark,
but still content to play my part.
The Childhood UnicornsThe day was cold and grey, misshapen clouds oozing across the sky as stale light filtered down to the ground below. A barely-there breeze caressed my face with the softness of steel wool. I shivered, standing among the grass in the empty field where I once played and miracles seemed to happen every day. That was long passed now, each day blending into the next as the earth turned and I grew older. I longed for the past afternoons spent in dazzling colour as I played with the creatures which were no longer there. The trees were barren, the grass ash; a splintered mirror for the world above.
I missed my childhood. I missed the golden sun and warm breezes. I missed the wonder of new discoveries. Mostly though, I missed the unicorns.
They had always been there for me, in the places I played and in the adventures I took. I knew now that they weren't real, just projections of an over-active imagination, but they had filled my days with joy and now I could scarcely remember how to smile.
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More