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About Varied / Hobbyist Saera Windrunner25/United States Recent Activity
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Prophecy by Sortvind Prophecy :iconsortvind:Sortvind 10,143 717
Literature
Stygiachrome
my house is made from wanderers,
and the decaying dancers in the park,
twisting, reaving, speaking lullabies
in the harshest tones the wind could imply
the hallowed halls in silence, reply,
the verdict, point in hand, can't we all just- .
There's a wordless inclination
in your practiced argumentation
and predatorially stated in
your rancid tone and-
but it's said on through the telephone
and likening was never quite as duotone
as the heart on sleeve was .
Their's is a chromataphore,
difference in spectrums, spectored,
to watch the life of the universe
unfold, chromataphore is just-
caught up in cloning the man
in his isolated gear numbered land,
as he attempts an escape like a bird in
mine is a watchmaker, watch her,
watch men, drowning in her worries,
drowning in their black hearted furies
and the beat repeats itself in unknowable
the rain spent and dissillusioned
without the high, the drug is just a price
and the sound is just a vice
and the stories sound too nice to be believed.
:icony0urstalker:y0urstalker
:icony0urstalker:y0urstalker 6 12
Literature
Broken Hearts
Where do broken hearts go,
To heal?
Where do they lay in solitude,
And once more become real?
What price, what punishment,
Must they undergo,
Before they are allowed to return,
To a world that has forsaken them,
A world that has spurned?
Where do broken hearts find,
The courage to move on?
Was that strength truly with them,
Inside all along?
Where do they hide the memories,
That they simply cannot share,
With anyone, anywhere?
Where do they learn to love,
Again?
Broken hearts become lonely hearts,
If the healing takes too long
The fear and mistrust of betrayal,
Makes them cold and wan
Lonely means forever broken
You find hurt and anger,
In every word spoken
But what happens if,
That heart is woken?
jlp January 4, 2009
:iconTheseKrimzonFlames:TheseKrimzonFlames
:iconthesekrimzonflames:TheseKrimzonFlames 163 141
Literature
Winter Poem
Winter Poem
Wandering the meadow, heavy
prints mark my footsteps
in the snow;
I am missing your eyes,
which keep the world warm,
the lilt that follows you
like voice flitting from ear
to ear, that song –
the one which is only heard when no one
listens, the tilt of your head
when something strikes you
funny, and perhaps you are less
than grounded in that moment.
I am grounded, weighted
in shadow; what I have unraveled,
a worm beneath skin,
shivering
like a footprint
in the snow, this will be filled in
or fade in the coming heat
of spring.
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants
:iconhamletspants:hamletspants 8 16
Literature
Orphan
Wickerwork upon a skeleton frame
In claws and tendrils
Scratches fragments of a name
Past whispered
Ever softly by the glowing embers
Of a night
Though only he remembers
And dreams of gardens never lost completely
And words that
(Spoken once) may lie more sweetly
Than a world in which
The mirrors have all been shattered
For they spoke with tongues too candid
In the way his dear old man did
Shot without a warning
On that ember night
And so each day
(Wrapped in a coat of woolen
Still rusty with his dad’s blood)
Pale face sullen
He makes his way into
The woods beside the home
For children with no owners
Set to roam
Until he should espy his precious aspen
Like a gallows
In the dusking gloam
There he sits with small heart pounding
While the lost one’s name is sounding
From the highest branches
To the umber loam
And as the wind his father’s name repeating
Lets out a shriek
As of a kettle heating
The boy looks to the nothing
All alone
:iconorphicfiddler:orphicfiddler
:iconorphicfiddler:orphicfiddler 6 11
Literature
Waken
I found you
uncultured
uncouth
impolite
until you took me
into your hands
without apology
and taught me
that it was I
in need of
learning.
:iconBlueskye27:Blueskye27
:iconblueskye27:Blueskye27 21 41
Literature
A Road Travelled Only Once
On sleepless nights
I feed my insomnia
with tales of my past.
I retell the stories
I've told many times before
and dwell in the glow
of my memories of glory.
Bitter moments
of hope, loss
and sheer stubborness
become flesh
once again.
Some call it
the foolishness
of the old and wrinkled,
such as myself,
but I can't seem to agree
- I was a fool but once.
That one time
is locked away,
caged deep beneath the bottom layers
of subconsciousness,
bound and shackled
to a fate of infinite oblivion.
:iconHyougen:Hyougen
:iconhyougen:Hyougen 8 6
Still not good enough by Iamno-Scientist Still not good enough :iconiamno-scientist:Iamno-Scientist 2,297 363
Literature
Raskol
Our son and his wife sleep in separate rooms. They are painted the same colour and bear identical scars but are separated by a hall so long that by the time I walk from one end to the other, I am too tired to compare and know what is different.
That is the convenience of an oversized house, I think, that we did not have in our small one-room apartment—they never have to see each other’s faces. You remember the nights when we were given no choice but to lie next to each other, against the hard corner, when we were seething in each other’s anger. How wonderful it might have been to stare at a blank wall, letting the heat of our hands seep into the plaster until we forgot each other, and how to be angry.
I never told you the fear I had inside my heart every time we tore apart and came back together again, that we would forget how closely we fit, or that in the short intervals when we were apart, a piece of the puzzle would come loose against us like a grain of sand, until w
:iconposhlost:poshlost
:iconposhlost:poshlost 254 221

Newest Deviations

Literature
Hollow
Here amidst the bones bleached white,
the echoes become trapped in ribcages
like a heartbeat.
But it’s just a sound.
No blood pumps through the
marrow thick like
baby’s breath-
flowers for someone who is sick or dying or
dead.
No light shines
under the skin and muscle.
How dark it must be for the
delicate, fleshy bits underneath.
The lungs don’t know when it’s time to
go. No moon to guide them.
How do they know when to
stop?
Does the heart even know the color
of blood?
:iconforWinds:forWinds
:iconforwinds:forWinds 2 5
Literature
Maria
When she was a child,
the sun was her God
that rose and fell one day
after one day
after one.
When she was a child,
the sun was her God
unchanging,
unlike the tenement halls
she scavenged
for her faith.
When she was a child,
bruises took her knees from praying.
When she was a child
kneeling on the floorboards,
she begged the sun to shine
through the window bars.
It only happened
sometimes.
When she was a child,
the sun was her God
but slowly she found that
God was not
the sun.
:iconforWinds:forWinds
:iconforwinds:forWinds 1 3
Literature
Temple
Blades of grass
brush the bottoms
of tanned feet, the cloth
of orange robes.
The wrinkles in the hem
transform an instant
into an hour
as thistles whistle windswept past
deaf ears and hunched backs,
pursed lips, closed eyes that open
to the soul.
Calm
ripples out from the center
in a golden, misty halo that echoes,
falling away like waves on a shore,
swelling loud and crashing all at once
into thin sheets.
The waves move up
towards wrinkled feet
where mist brushes the brows
of the brothers in orange
and dissolves like the silent
ohm of breathing,
deep and steady, up
to the open temple walls
and far into the trees.
:iconforWinds:forWinds
:iconforwinds:forWinds 3 3
Literature
Duty
We stand and face
the blinded men.
There is one
for each of us.
They stand like ruins in the rain,
the water pouring down
the cracks in their faces,
corroding away the skin
until there is nothing left but
sand.
The officer barks-
we raise our rifles
and learn only to remember
the jolt in our shoulders
before the heavy fall.
The bodies crumple to the ground
like folds of laundry. Yet
one still shivers
across from me, wet
between the legs.
Another bark, but
to my left remains standing
a gun cocked and loaded,
the sight shaking with a trembling chest.
Bark, again, but he shuts his eyes
and shakes his head,
denying the tag
around his neck.
I hear my name
and before the blinded man can fumble
with his lips,
“Oh mother- Dear God who art in Heaven-“
I pull the butt from my shoulder
and stand before the blood
pooling in the dirt
amidst the rifle's smoke.
To my left,
I hear him wretch.
:iconforWinds:forWinds
:iconforwinds:forWinds 3 2
Newspaper Phoenix by forWinds Newspaper Phoenix :iconforwinds:forWinds 0 3 I Say by forWinds I Say :iconforwinds:forWinds 3 7
:icondonotuseplz::iconmyartplz:
Please, do NOT use my work without my written consent! And don't steal, either, that's just rude. Thank you. ^^

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Hi all,
A lot has been going on recently, including health issues, my car being out of commission, a lot of financial trouble, and general suckage. Still, despite all of this difficulty, I know everything will turn out okay. It always does.

In the meantime, I've uploaded some poetry from my last semester at UML. Perhaps I'll upload some of the fiction I've been working on and see what kind of feedback I get. That might kickstart my motivation for finishing what I start.

I hope you all are well, I hope to be more active here... somehow. Sometime between my three jobs, freelancing, and sleeping, at least.

Blessed be,
Kirsti
  • Reading: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
  • Watching: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

deviantID

forWinds
Saera Windrunner
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
Writer. Music lover. College grad trying to get by.
Perfectionist. Neat freak. Extreme dreamer.
Gamer. Grammar nazi. Thinker.
Observer. Helper. Shoulder.
Smartass.

Current Residence: Northeast USA
deviantWEAR sizing preference: Medium, depending
Favourite genre of music: Movie Scores, Instrumentals, pretty much everything!
MP3 player of choice: iPod
Interests

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:iconhereswhereistand:
hereswhereistand Featured By Owner 1 day ago  New Deviant Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for favoriting my poem
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:iconrushy:
Rushy Featured By Owner Jun 17, 2017
Party Happy Birthday! Have your cake and eat it too
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:iconrushy:
Rushy Featured By Owner Jun 17, 2016
:party: Happy Birthday! :cake:
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:iconjasperinity:
Jasperinity Featured By Owner Jun 17, 2015
Happy birthday! :D
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:iconrushy:
Rushy Featured By Owner Jun 17, 2015
:party: Happy Birthday! :cake:
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