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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Apocalypse Autumndots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Shadowstar13
    Elite Ratio:    4.73 - 191/191/129
    Words: 371
    Class/Type: Poetry/
    Total Views: 863
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2384



    Description:
       I don't even know anyone named Bobby...


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsApocalypse Autumndots
    -------------------------------------------


    I looked back, bloody and blue-eyed.
    I saw fireworks of human bodies and machines, explosions of temper
    Starbursts behind eye sockets, empty. Bullets flew, and Bobby took a hit for the team.
    Insanity ran rampant, and behind restless eyes, animosity died.
    But in the wildness, my irises ran across a razor's edge,
    feeling autumn leaves brush against my face.
    Winter isn't a season of death; it's just fallow in the growing cycle.
    Autumn of that year, that was dying. It was phoenix fire dying to ashes,
    failing hearts sparking flame,
    wild nights of hope and pain with the wind screaming-
    in joy or triumph, I still don't know. It was pressing a flower between the pages of a book and throwing that book to the sun as it died,
    soaring restless through the window,
    words flying untamed, unashamed from tongues that had minds and hearts of their own,
    dodging heavy artillery ammo as the skies went black with dreams and gunfire,
    shattered glass and crushed leaves.

    Autumn of that year.

    Autumn, that was dying, that is dying. It's a beautiful horrible feeling.

    Apocalypse autumn.

    I try to reach a hand into the past,
    but the girl there is foreign to me.
    My skin is untouched by the fire that scorched her face-or nearly.
    I can't touch the heart that belonged to her,
    the smell of cities burning like Ridley and the sight of indelible allies standing nearbye against a horror horizon,
    they belong to her as much as me. Maybe more than me.
    But sometimes, when I walk by another utopia flying to heaven on gasoline wings,
    I feel that kerosene child move closer to me.
    She never withdraws, never shrinks away. She is rising.
    As I catch the scent of accelerant on a wind fresh from the north,
    I know.

    I will need her again. She'll need me. This is bigger than both of us.
    But this time I won't let myself go. I won't re-be if "civilization"
    catches itself a second time-
    and if it doesn't,
    I will not shed my own sense of insanity.
    I will stay,
    both kerosene child and back-alley warrior.

    I will always be ready in apocalypse autumn.




    Submitted on 2010-01-28 15:00:26     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

    Rate This Submission

    1: >_<
    2: I dunno...
    3: meh!
    4: Pretty cool
    5: Wow!




    ||| Comments |||
      yeah, this was, is, a different world kind of good, and i found it arresting and cohesive in the way that things like this sometimes aren't. it's a world that you want to know more about, and sheeeesh, there was some lovely phrasing dispersed throughout.

    a pleasant extension of thought.

    tap in to that.
    | Posted on 2010-02-21 00:00:00 | by theAlysonDiarys | [ Reply to This ]
      This is superb. My mother used to like autumn, I thought it was morbid in a way, it seemed to me dying-time. The leaves only stayed bright for so long... then it was all brown and dead. I guess when we're young we only we the light and dark, life and death, and not the colors in the struggle and change.

    gasoline child... I love that. Burning youth, it's always so hot and bright and new... uncharred. just pure fuel and fire.

    Love this soooo much! So glad you're back :)
    | Posted on 2010-02-09 00:00:00 | by Runes | [ Reply to This ]
      This was epic.
    The language used seems prophetic, a divination of sorts, which I've always found intriguing and enjoyable.

    To step outside of oneself in literature and lace various subtexts within a piece gives no small measure of bliss, I've found (from both a writer's and reader's perspective, I might add as well). Pace and intent is well-defined here, with solid and authentic imagery.

    I have no other words to say except I enjoyed every second of this and found it freshly-written and fascinating.
    | Posted on 2010-01-30 00:00:00 | by trinityfinger | [ Reply to This ]
      'Autumn of that year, that was dying. It was phoenix fire dying to ashes,
    failing hearts sparking flame,
    wild nights of hope and pain with the wind screaming-
    in joy or triumph, I still don't know. It was pressing a flower between the pages of a book and throwing that book to the sun as it died,
    soaring restless through the window,
    words flying untamed, unashamed from tongues that had minds and hearts of their own,
    dodging heavy artillery ammo as the skies went black with dreams and gunfire,
    shattered glass and crushed leaves.'

    wow! actually this whole entire write is just... wow!
    and i find i can't tell you why exactly, but inside i say - i wish i wrote this.

    there is a tone here, or a rythmn, that just pulls at me.

    [censored].

    'kerosene child and back-alley warrior'.

    idk.

    this is just so well written. it hits a core. and makes me wan't to cry in the music of it.

    sorry i can't really articulate it much better.
    but yeah, thoughts...

    | Posted on 2010-01-29 00:00:00 | by isabella | [ Reply to This ]


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