wolven7: (The Very Devil)
A discrete tremble of the hand and
a particular cast of the mouth:
that's how they knew each other.
There, in mind, a certain perception of
light and shadow—a chiaroscuro mindset,
like dazzle camouflage, all
broken transmissions and misfiring synapses.
Their forced exterior calm couldn't reflect
the interior turmoil, the complete lack of
all filters or controls.
They weren't broken.
They simply didn't have these things,
didn't have the facility for the deceptive
dance and sway of language, and so
they made do.
They understood each other
as soon as they saw each other,
and they fell into an easy amity, removing
the need for clumsy words, faulty
explanations of meaning, or awkward
pauses.
There was a limitlessness
in their effortless communication,
a feeling of transcendence which made
all onlookers fall slowly silent, struck
by reverence for the sacred, there, on display:
They expressed.
©Damien Williams. All Rights.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

This poem was based on [livejournal.com profile] amberite's prompts.

That's everyone. I'm not completely pleased with every one of these pieces, but that's not what this was about. It was about writing, consistently, fiction and poetry, and it was meant to be a piece per day, but that didn't always happen. Oh well. I wrote. I have been writing. And I will continue to be writing.

All of these pieces can be found, here: http://wolven.livejournal.com/tag/thinking%20about%20writing

Good night.
wolven7: (Me)
A quest from a dream;
the stitching of a unit,
Cerebus pulls chains;

Expending effort
to be the glue keeping tight
these stairs to the sun.

Childbirth as star-birth.
Something with obvious depth.
Stirring in the dawn.

Dreams' memories fade,
But each face, each tear, each scrape
Meets with their lessons.
©Damien Williams. All Rights.
------------------------------------------------------------------

This poem is from [livejournal.com profile] not_hothead_yet's prompts.

One more after midnight
wolven7: (The Very Devil)
She comes to him like whispers
in the dark and winding connections
of this place. The thrum of a girder
in a derelict warehouse, struck
by a careless rock: An Echo
(all echoes) of meaning and former form.

She is an association in his mind, now--
an insinuation of memory, twisting
like smoke through the halls of thoughts.
She is the subsonic reverberation, itching
behind his eyes, the resonance
in his guts. And everything that he is
will be shaken apart, drowned out,
strained toward, covered in,
and rebuilt toward
her.
©Damien Williams. All Rights
---------------------------------------------------------------

This poem is from [livejournal.com profile] kittenspeaks' prompts. They felt more like a poem, than a story. Or maybe she did. I'm too tired to tell the difference anymore.

Night

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February 2016

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