Tanith-Mora

Bite me, bite me-- since when did you care what my name was? Teeth, bite me leave the marks for me to remember, as the fire dies down and the ash curls grey.

do you see the smoke is rising? from the tops of gunmetal barrels glinting, the sun and clouds ringing through to the heart of a sinner, bullets fly the triggers gripped tightly for the next killing. do you see how there is nothing but us and one purpose, in one house. you see how Father has gone for this one, and if not one... nothing. The end. You remember Uncle Jimmy, don't you? he gave you candies last Christmas called you his son, when your father died. And today, he died the same. how they shoot and run in the dust, and they are killed in the heads of other men for their freedom. do you see bodies of men in the

I picked up the tele phone, today, with shaking hands a beating heart about to rupture and the thought of hearing your voice on the other end. Thinking of memories as the yester-winds sweep against soft plains, green grasses and night skies full of music, living learning. Thinking of you and your complexity, your "couldn't-care" shoulders, always so distantly cool to the world. You from last year is still lodged in my thoughts, your hardass attitude proclaiming to the world that you were tough, damn brilliant-- your glow-in-the-dark green volleyball hugged tightly to your proud chest, everything about you iridescent. C

Do you ever feel like, turning your life away with the flip of a calendar page, passing the time as it  steadily goes as your eyes follow every dark grid and then, night turns to day and the light dispelling darkness, the moon then coming in like a creeping spectre, and black and White meld, into a rhapsodic cycle and then, the seasons blurring into a b

We begin, a game a story. That of a grizzled paladin who theorized who analyzed and fought, with the steel rod of theoretical logics-- a mace, forged of the most smashing absolutes. and that of a willow bard, green and unseasoned in this time: who fought with the human psyche, the idea and constructs of men's hearts; perhaps convoluted. A lute playing assumptions, only held to be true. Begin now. Says I, for the bard begins: I take a sip a tot of chamomile tea, warming my throat to the heat of skirmishes; my hands fold. A bit cold, for the logician paladin has smashed me before, and logic is his snuff, of which h

it is four, o' five and thirty-three seconds, now four, o' five and thirty-four seconds if one takes a breath just one. there's a lamp on the desk to keep the dust motes dancing, entwined in a mad and endless waltz. 1 23 and there is no apparent end to this silent music. Animated flecks of nonlife moving and turning and, too beautiful to describe like life, but not living. the lamp a sentry at the gate to burn shadows away-- again, creeping fingers of onyx-black night vanquished but just to return again, in tomorrow's dark. There are two bodies in this room with the lamp and the motes and the light in the shadows, one would t