(Source: followthegoat, via swollenhearts)
The decline of literature indicates the decline of a nation.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Don’t ask me for pity, as I have none to spare (I spend it all on myself).
By Brooks Shane Salzwedel, carefully layered mixed media and drawing to make these really unique landscapes. It adds so much depth to each piece just by having several layers of images built up on one another.
what a flammable heart i've been given: I have chased my breath into sleepy oceans,rocking tides and jaded...
I have chased my breath into sleepy oceans,
rocking tides and jaded rivers
Only to find my limbs folded faithless and fleshless
Like wounded treasure shipwrecked beneath an apathetic moon.
Just oozing saccharine blood
to assauge the sweet-tooth of a God
whom I once knew when sweating suns…
2 weeks ago - 
5
5 Alive
When the sun sleeps beneath the sea
from its chains the fair moon is free
and from her will, the cancer cloud revives
the fallen beasts and spreads its seed
it is beneath the starlight that the forest comes alive
*
the boughs of trees do change and
form the softest silvery threads so grand
that ensnare the sky in spidery web
the willows sigh and the moon does sing
its bewitching tune, to which the tides ebb
*
a feast for preying birds there be
(for murders feed on murders, you see)
wolf mothers hunt with hungry pups
and all the mortal men who wander
are surely swallowed up!
*
But for all the temporal pleasures
such as night’s forest treasures
lovely things as well do cease
for the moon shall fall and the curs’d sun shall rise
as day breaks the fragile peace
2 weeks ago - 3
3 
(Source: i-am-the-oracular-spectacular, via bucketsandclowns)
He is with her; and they know that I know
Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow
While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear
Empty church, to pray God in, for them! — I am here.
“The Laboratory” by Robert Browning
Of Flowers and Floods
Rain crashes onto car windows,
and shatters like frozen glass,
to stir the sleepwalkers
from silent reverie.
Hurling at the fastest pace,
driving down the grimmest roads,
dreamers contemplate
why it is that nature’s tears fall
downward and not upwards
towards the peak of Mt. Olympus
where gods create merriment
from stardust.
Above the dancing clouds
they could be free,
free as dreamers long to be.
And yet the rain must fall
and break the spells
that grip mortal hearts
whose pensive hopes
think of more than
flowers and floods.
3 weeks ago - 3
3 
