rogue-tzigane

warm as summer's kiss rain fall through the weeping boughs leaves soaked green with loss solitude stills the singing alone, the trees whisper on

A  Silent       Hestitant                  Liturgy            Expelling      Yarns             Condensed                            Around                                  Realistic                                        Language                                           In                                Systematic                        Late-night              Expositions

They held the flames in their outstretched hands As the yellowing sun turned its head once more And their wailing was heard throughout the lands With carnage and waste came the hungry brigands And their hot, dry tears could not sate the gore While they held the flames in their outstretched hands So the blood was spilt across the gurgling sands As the heroes watched behind locked, painted doors And their grief was felt throughout the lands Though their freedom could be bought for twenty meager rands The festering sky would not stop the war Yet they still held the flames in their outstretched hands For days upon days they felt the s

there are deserts between deserts of nothing save doubt and imagined fortitude (the firey expanse of our burdens) and i can still hear your name echoed across those burning sands sands of fortitude still.

Florid, sensuous, overbearing…The African heat envelops the night. The stars throb in their lodgings, indifferent (or perhaps unaware) of the goings on beneath. A young girl stands among the soot and rubble of her home, holding an indiscernible object her cheek. Rather than lost, she looks thoughtful, as though pondering her predicament. Suddenly she kneels, rubbing the molten ash, searching. "Mattaniah?" she murmurs. A tear escapes, silent, regal. "Mattaniah… Mattaniah... Mattaniah …" *** They find her amongst the ruins, still whispering, barely crying. Her voice is pure, her language harsh and exotic, her body taut and young.  They whis

They never knew true love. They sang of it, and preached of it, And deluded the world to it's long suffering and kindness, But they never felt it. Fiery tendrils creeping along their skin in the night, Awakening the senses to darkness. Blinded, did they stumble in vain, Murmuring sweet nothings that meant the world and more? Nay, they never had a clue. Fire, then is it? Perhaps, More like to drown, Floundering in his everything, Gasping for nothing but his breath, Seething beneath his truth and taint and touch. To lay spread eagled to the bed, Chest rended open from navel to neck, His name scorching your veins, Holy water dr