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Literature
Alifae
Like everybody else, she had seen them before. But she had never really seen them. She wondered, now that they had anointed her as their queen, if her gaze used to try and follow their mischievous path from flower to flower, flitting randomly. They were her flitters. Sometimes she thought she could see the patterns of flight, but when she tried to anticipate the path they'd take they would turn unexpectedly, or worse, they'd fall dangerously close to the ground, as if to frighten her purposefully. Fickle creatures, her butterflies.
They had always been outside her reach. She would spot them traversing the garden, or meandering lost in the city streets. And her interest grew. When she found one, she would lock her eyes on their distant minuscule wings as if they were on automatic, moving her head robotically. She began to go out of her way to follow them- the little ones were the hardest to track. One day, as she trailed behind an unusually large swallowtail, she realised she had simply
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Literature
eyes
thick shackles broken,
lashing curved
together. moons
vanish in those wells,
intent on drying.
suddenly inside
            him
and out, shut
in one second
by stairs unfolded.
left looking, again,
at the warmest hue of chocolate.
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Literature
Sonnet asleep
Take me, little death, in your sweet embrace,
Tell Hypnos it’s his time to carry me
From the lit plains of sunflower faces
And lay me to rest under moon lilies.
Shower me with your kiss – I’ll drink it all
And parched will start dreaming. Let us be shy,
Your blush will meet mine, caress, we will fall
As others have in life’s greatest lie –
But we, we will lie otherwise, ourselves
As one, in two, evermore intimate.
Under the lightless pillows we must delve,
Hide me, little death, for the sun is late.
    I will sleep, and dream with you, always true,
    Always true, and till the morrow, love you.
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Literature
Sonnets
ix.
Shower me with your smiles, muse of my heart,
Armored with loyalty perhaps, and still
Your stare does make my lust suggest a part
In a two-piece game. Prohibited thrills,
Your voice plucks and plays with no strings attached
-Can't you see there must be nothing between-
You pay no mind with newly freed sighs hatched
From an innocent enough looking screen,
Hiding dark. Be content, muse of my eye,
Knowing not one dream has ever come true
There's no danger in my thoughts. But I lie:
I will pillage any chance to win you.
    Taken, why did you have to take me too,
    I wish no harm, except I might love you.
viii.
Gather this courage and martyrize it -
A stand on a wind-shackled precipice
Before the storms of a chemical fit
Of the lunar curse. Blind Lady Justice,
Escort me to your coven, blindfolded,
And let the dogs drink from my jugular.
It's their gnawing teeth - my ribs, and moulded
Claws - my sharpened nerves in tense muscular
Shudders, that wake the hound of bl
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Literature
To Santiago in the Summer
I will come to you through the fields,
Golden waves of wheat like the epitaph read,
Another walker in a brook of deals.
I will walk for you are     .
Load less heavy on my back but dancing -
Belly full, bottle ready, sun quenched.
I chose the destination, but destiny chose it
And the roads all lead, and all take and give
Every step vibrating, plucking,
Dry tunes but sweat drenched.
Walker, walking friend, was this it?
A winding road towards a heartfelt end?
When we walked we were alive
But when you stopped to look back,
I was already on my way.
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Literature
Magnita
It looks to the overcast sun
Missing from the scene,
But this audience never wavers.
A flower for one
Peering over the green,
For the sky’s favour.
Stone centre and clay crowned
Held by the touch of metal
And yet growing with seed.
It needs no water, no ground
Forever open petals
Looking, yearning, a need
For the only one that gives
The only sun, the only one,
That knows how to grieve.
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Literature
Sparrowfarts
Nancy’s eyes shift in her dreams. They’re the only part of her face that’s visible, until she turns and burrows her head into the pillow, hair sprouting savage off the edge of the duvet. Her phone lies face down on the bedside table. It begins to ring, a happy-go-lucky tune that wakes Nancy up with a mini-heart attack. She sits up, takes the phone and turns the music off. The light of the screen washes her face blue, marking the bags under her eyes. Cristina doesn’t wake up, she sleeps still in her own twin bed, dreaming. Nancy stares at the screen as the light slowly loses intensity. She has class in an hour. She has to get up, get dressed, get the kettle going, get ready. It’s a stupid class. She loathes the teacher. The screen light dies. There’s a wavering light that shyly taints the room with the darkest tone of orange. Nancy looks out the window, and thinks she sees rain. The weather forecast said it’d rain today. Her leg slides out of th
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Literature
Ice and Fire
That day his world ended in fire,
Not in ice.
Only when the earth was scorched and tired
The air burnt with screams of fire
Would you wish for this advice:
When it's darkness' time to reap
Hope your world will end in ice,
To make you sleep,
But never twice.
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:iconmanonsi:manonsi 1 0
Literature
Sungone
I hooked my eyes on you,
Sun-boy from the dark precincts,
Fighting the stream of tunes
With your dashing accent.
But the sun doesn’t pick:
It casts and we all take you in
Equally, always with the same tricks,
The same for all the doting grins.
Another sun-child fooled me once
(A teaspoonful of sunlight, spilt and done)
And you do it again, as if by chance,
Just being yourself in a strange land of sun.
I had to panic, scream –
Fled for the nearest storm,
Got caught in the thunder streams
lost, hopeless, unborn –
But your smile unwavering
Ever shining, casting shadows as it
dances, shadows that remind me, again,
That the sun has no favourite.
I have the wax glued, the feathers done
Waiting to take off into the land of sun,
Seeing the settling dust
– sunset is upon us
You’ll soon wander back
To the shadows you were born in
While I’ll be alone, dark,
In the land of sun
Sunless.
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:iconmanonsi:manonsi 1 2
Literature
Exhumed
It was only when Claude finished playing that he noticed the walls were breaking apart. Not literally, but there were visible cracks. He’d never seen the rips in the wallpaper peeling off like dead skin before – it was all just visual static to him. He brushed off his sleeve the piece of ceiling paint that had come to rest on his arm.
He packed her up, closed the clasps and left the music studio. Tim had cleaned the windows of the main hall and the light was coming through for the first time in months. He had to be around, somewhere. Claude slid as silently as he could, but the creaking floorboards sang in warning.
“Good mornin’ Claude! Heard you playin’, sure did” His ginger head popped from the reception desk. “Gonna go fix the lights today, you’ll see tomorrow.”
Claude didn’t stop to answer – but he never did.
A breeze picked up a couple of leaves and made them dance around him as he hurried, throwing them off their c
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Literature
Unforgiving Spring Sonnet
Unforgiving Spring, you have me tortured:
First you assault me with the brightest light,
Stinging my cavern eyes, cringing at spores
You’ve set on me, along the hound hairs’ flight.
Are you not satisfied? But no, not yet,
The chilly breeze lulls me into the sun
Never thinking, happy me, I’ll regret,
Sweet innocent pleasures of harmless fun.
Couple hours later and no one has seen
Such devastating mixtures of burnt skin
Glowing red under a carpet of cream
Itching ferocious with every sour grin.
Nifty Spring: when will my affliction end?
Have I not amused with your bless’d godsend?
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Literature
Haikus of Monotony
Painted horizons
Rudimentary freedom
Choking dreams inside
Excellent gusto
The careless swig of the mug
Dried seeds, frozen worms
It is only after
The clap of the door closing
Widened eyes light up
The constant gurgle
Chasing my bedtime away
-a sister’s shower
Ghost balls of paper
But the book is intact, still
Deadline approaches
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:iconmanonsi:manonsi 0 0
Literature
Unasked for
I've learnt the art of wry smiles:
The slow coiling of the edges and the slight drop of the lids, 
The arched back of the single brow and the sideways slant of the amused pupil,
We've got it down to the beat, all accounted for, all the steps memorized subconsciously 
In the, now parted, afternoon mental repeats of our choreography. 
I've learnt to delete every picture, every file:
With every blank space left behind, all the mirrored memoir shadow words
Have built a monument to us, an improbable homage to our world,
Filled with fences and lines restricting friendships, withholding benefits
Always for the better, always pushed around until nighttime hit.
And now unavailable
   Unobtainable
But still communicating 
   Illuminating
Sitting back and letting the irony tattoo itself on my mood swings
While the tendrils of a feeling long succumbed filter through,
Scaring (the living shit out of) a virgin heart that has never loved, but know
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:iconmanonsi:manonsi 1 3
Literature
Haikus of Returning
Tea leaves swim
And on the surface
Birds fly by
The full moon splendid
Moves between the buildings, free
He watches – yearning
The balance between
A cool night and mosquitoes:
The open window
Stop – silent grief
I crush the spiral house
An accident
No stars this cold night
Just you and I, streetwalking
Eerie sparkling suns
Let me sleep tonight
Your sweet chirping, though quiet
Loud enough for me
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el mundo gira y gira como una peonza rota.
Un ciervo blanco bebiéndose la nieve
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Una boca intenta herir a otra boca,
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sobre el borde filoso de la vida.
El hombre habla. Lo único que dice es ruido.
:iconMissARCADA:MissARCADA
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Activity


Like everybody else, she had seen them before. But she had never really seen them. She wondered, now that they had anointed her as their queen, if her gaze used to try and follow their mischievous path from flower to flower, flitting randomly. They were her flitters. Sometimes she thought she could see the patterns of flight, but when she tried to anticipate the path they'd take they would turn unexpectedly, or worse, they'd fall dangerously close to the ground, as if to frighten her purposefully. Fickle creatures, her butterflies.

They had always been outside her reach. She would spot them traversing the garden, or meandering lost in the city streets. And her interest grew. When she found one, she would lock her eyes on their distant minuscule wings as if they were on automatic, moving her head robotically. She began to go out of her way to follow them- the little ones were the hardest to track. One day, as she trailed behind an unusually large swallowtail, she realised she had simply lost the track of time, and had followed the flying creature into the forest. It became harder to follow as the trees grew thicker and the light dimmer. But she did not stop - she could not lose it. Being a daytime butterfly, the swallowtail, which she had affectionately named Cher during her chase, eventually decided on a good spot to rest its tired little body. She did not know the intricacies and the properties of the flitters’ feeding plants then, but she guessed now Cher must have found a thistle brush to perch on.
She realized, as she stood breathless a few feet away from the little sleeper, that she had become quite mad, to follow a flitter all the way into the forest. But she also thought then that she was as happy as she had ever been, and so she decided to stay.

She honestly didn't know precisely how long it had been since that day - her clothes had torn a few months back and she had fashioned herself a dress out of leaves, strings of flowers and butterfly wings. She also wore a flower crown made of the brightest specimens she could find - so that her flitters could rest on her head and take a sip. She developed a very healthy appetite for fresh petals and fruit, and would aimlessly wander around the deepest parts of the thicket, butterfly train flying around and behind her. She loved looking for pupae- underneath leaves or burrowed in the dirt, and she always knew to come back when they emerged, blowing softly on their crumpled wings as they hardened. She would keep the ones that had fallen of their perches; carefully, she would glue them with resin to her earlobes. When they darkened and jiggled, she would sit patiently until they broke out. After, she would name them then - Willow, Spark, Chaser, Star - and they would join her party. She would sing and dance with them and they would circle her like a unified being, a cloud of iridescent hues.
She tried very hard to keep up with the caterpillars - but there were so many she couldn't help them all. Some would fall victims to birds and other insects, but the predators knew not to mess with her when she was present.
The only times she was sad was when they came to die in her hands. She would lay them on their favourite feeding plant and let the forest have them. If they were exceptionally beautiful, or a special friend, she would clip their wings and wear them, so that they could be with her in death.  

The Lord and Lady of the forest were very much delighted with this peaceful presence, although it did take them a couple of seasons to become aware of her work. Only when she made her way into the heart of the wood one spring did her footsteps alert the Lord and Lady in their slumber, who later that night followed the trail and found her sleeping by the riverbank, covered in a blanket of butterflies. It was quite the extraordinary sight. They followed her sometimes, seeing what she would do, as a cool breeze might seem to follow one on a warm night. And as they became enamoured with her, they decided to help. The Lady coaxed the feeding plants bloom harder as the caterpillar population grew and devoured leaves in their wake. The Lord always listened when she sang, humming cheerful tunes to make the butterflies dance and sweet undertones to make them rest, and would teach her tunes to his favourite birds. Although she never saw them, they watched her from time to time and came to think of her as a daughter.
One night, as she slept, they wove a sheet of silk and enveloped her- they sealed it tight and hung her up from the tallest tree in the whole forest. They would take turns each night to weave their spells into the chrysalis, and during the day the butterflies would swarm around the tree, feeling her presence. The Lord would sing in birdsong, and his song made the silk strands shimmer and glow. The Lady would rest her hand on the chrysalis, and letting her warmth flow through inside. The cocoon darkened as the nights passed and she slept, blissfully and peacefully.

The first day of spring the cocoon opened. The first thing she saw was a nervous flutter of wings, so naturally to her, she hummed in soothing tones to calm the anxious butterflies. There were new faces among the crowd, curious to see what the fuss was about. She widened the slit in the hardened silk, and became worried as she saw the drop to the treetops below. Nevertheless, she climbed out, clinging to the overhead branch, and as she did, a set of crumpled wings followed her outside the hole. She felt as they hardened, blood flowing through the many, many tiny vessels. She wondered what they would look like, what colours they'd sport. It took hours, but when she finally unfurled them, she glanced back to see. Oh, the colours took her breath away. She could see colours she couldn't even describe because no words had names for them in the human tongues. The veins were a navy blue that surrounded the rainbow scales that made symmetric circles and shapes. She thought of moving them, and they did, wafting the air and the excited little flitters with them. She picked up the pace of her flapping and felt an upwards pull - and as she let go, she was suspended in the air.

"I need a name", she said to her friends as she surveyed the forest underneath her. The Lord and Lady of the forest, who had been paying close attention to the metamorphosis despite the sunlight, whispered each into her ears: "Alifae".
"What about Alifae?" she asked a blue and brown flitter that was perched on the tip of her nose. It moved its puffy antennae in agreement. Having decided on a name, she resolved herself to let go of the branch. She flew then, train close behind, and was the happiest she had ever been. She forgot her human past completely. She was then the first of the Fae.

deviantID

manonsi
words, words, words
Artist | Literature
Spain
Just another dreamer

Comments


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:icongrisbrouille:
GrisBrouille Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
thanks for the :iconllama3dplz: :D
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:iconskyline03:
skyline03 Featured By Owner Oct 6, 2013  Student Traditional Artist
thanks for the fav and watch :)
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:iconmanonsi:
manonsi Featured By Owner Oct 6, 2013   Writer
pleasure's mine! :D
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:iconmanonsi:
manonsi Featured By Owner Jul 18, 2013   Writer
you're welcome!! :D
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:icongrisbrouille:
GrisBrouille Featured By Owner Jul 19, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
:)
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:iconsunhoney:
sunhoney Featured By Owner Jun 30, 2013
thank you for the fave :) hope you enjoy reading the rest of my poetry!
xxx
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:iconmanonsi:
manonsi Featured By Owner Sep 20, 2013   Writer
thank you for the fave too! I will, no doubt ^^
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:icondailybreadcafe:
DailyBreadCafe Featured By Owner Jun 20, 2013   Writer
Thanks for the fav!
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:iconmanonsi:
manonsi Featured By Owner Jun 21, 2013   Writer
you're welcome!! :)
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