A comfy corner on a fluffy pillowed couch; books at your disposal while your cat purrs next to your woolly socks— it is winter, and you are in your element as you drink hot cocoa. The fireplace blares as its warmth cradles you tightly— you are safe here.
46 posts
The Orchestra
The Orchestra
Archive #4 | copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's note: Welcome back to another depressive episod-
The Orchestra
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Crushing.
I feel sick to my gut retching in disgust.
I hear the orchestra haunting me in the forgotten corridor passages in my ears,
Daunting me.
I feel faint from exhaustion.
Am I truly in the works with the devil? Blessed to be cursed upon arrival when I finally realise my true nature?
My fingertips are still cold from gliding across the icy surface of your deadbeat heart.
Are your walls strong enough to withstand my pride?
Did you love me because it was me? Or did you love me because it was your first experience of love?
Droplets of sin kiss my dull skin like an after shower of rain as a cauldron of emotions floods my walls and pushes against me in ripple tides.
For shame has bewitched me.
It's hard to breathe;
Hard to stay awake.
Will the cello ever outshine the violin?
Breaking their backs just to be working behind the scenes,
Whose sole purpose is to make the other shine.
The moon and cello;
The violin and the sun.
I'm chained;
I repeat my mistakes to the point my hands are tied.
The escape is merely pleasant for the short term investment of loss.
What is there to guarantee if not tarnishment—
Your blood stains my silverware, your flesh between my teeth.
You can wash away your thoughts but mine linger like the smell of rot.
Your walls hindered the sound of the conductor's strained sigh,
His graceful arms swayed to the point of silence, reminiscing about his first love.
His torment fixated on me as a warning.
The orchestra—
A sickly sweet melody turned bitter as it sounded like a death march.
Their fight to be heard makes me shudder as I chew on my regret.
Does the conductor ever lose focus on all who plays?
Some are cast out to sea as others are broken down into pieces to be moulded into framework.
Paintings are a sheer will of power that articulates format.
Control?
Not yours.
You may be a canvas with brushed out colours, but you are not art as that truly has meaning.
Meaning— comes from your heart alone.
Something that you do not wish to seek without a second opinion.
Drowning sounds more appealing than being left alone on driftwood.
The seemingly endless waves of potential frightens the fallen angel that has clipped wings.
Never meant for the sea:
Never had the chance to fly.
Just…
Floating.
Drowning sounds more comforting.
But why do I still hear the orchestra? Even as I sink down... down...
Down....
Down.....
How ironic that hell is supposedly down to the core of the earth,
How the warmth of the centre is seen as evil.
Such lies— for which I only feel the cold.
The tight feeling of goosebumps chokes my soul as my body gives in,
For what it feels like I am reaching the bottom of the cauldron.
Sinking.... Dragged down further than I can register in my delusional head...
…
…
….
The sweet cries of the violin are muffled down here.
I can hear the cello–
Oh,
The moon…
It shines down here.
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v-for-venus liked this · 5 months ago
More Posts from Saturnfairycat
The shell of a "hero"
Archive #1 | Copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's note: Hi guys! This is a writing piece that I wrote a long time ago that I really liked. I am open to pointers and suggestions to help me improve my writing! Enjoy ^^
The Shell of a "hero"
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Doomsday marks the sore spot in that heart of yours.
Is it physical pain, or emotional, again?
I can only fill it with empty compliments for so long,
I've been doing it for too long.
But nothing else seemed to stop the bleeding.
Do you really need comfort?
Or do you need yourself?
I can only help you by giving you the truth...
My fear in hurting you is shallow,
Shallow enough to stop myself from trying once more.
The truth can rip out a heart.
The truth can reveal the warmth inside, blanketed by the sun.
All of this warmth, hidden.
The truth can crack that protective shell.
But will we allow it to happen?
I know your warmth is beautiful,
But the shell is ugly enough to drive me away.
I'm selfish, and so are you.
But I am the villain in your story.
The villain is bound to hurt,
I am bound to reveal the truth.
Your anticlimactic story, your undeserving hateful past.
You drag down those who are so full of light with you.
Down, down the inky, gloomy tunnel.
You don't mean to, I tell myself.
Belief can only do so much.
I adore you for your aspiring ways, your joy and passion for things that make you shine.
But that alone won't be enough to bribe.
Farewell, hero,
Until you realise the villain is always right.
I'm always here for you.
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Infatuation
Archive #9 | copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's Note: SECOND POEM MENTIONED RAHHHH ENJOY
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Infatuation
Summersweet, white alder, pepper bush—
wind that blows bouquets away with a swoosh.
A church, the ocean and the utter devotion
such words that are unremittingly
used and mentioned.
You must be annoyed and sick of the voices
telling you about the, oh so many choices…
that you can take.
It makes your cliff shake and ache against the currents
you’re trying to break.
Hundred of shouts turns into a song
while you still can’t get along—
with yourself and the image
that you portray as a sailor, paying primage.
You can’t love a siren,
moreover cage them in a shrine to admire in.
They didn’t draw you in with their beauty,
they were just on death duty.
Artless feelings are sweet and dependent
until you sneeze and crush flowers gifted,
not to the loved one but to the church—
a place of worship but for a search…
of pathetic purpose.
Arson ash that coughs up the lungs
makes heartthrobs hold their tongues.
It’s been so long since the reminiscence,
but existence with omniscience means that
one can’t help those that don’t want it.
Sailors should save those words for those who admit it.
Repetition shows a mind not working—
hiding behind the words of formal glory.
When the time comes that you consider your fate,
please stop placing your heart on a plate.
Not everything is worth dying for, therefore
realise this before you bleed even more.
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Star clusters of pasque flowers, the series
Archive #17 | copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's Note: and here we are - the whole series in one post. Let me know if you like this! Enjoy :)))
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Star clusters of pasque flowers
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Fairy Salt
Meadows, ponds, butterflies and all
The jealousy, envy towards a thrall.
To have dreams with one can break walls.
Saturn has one too many rings to fall
Out of line, out of sight.
Hail storms help those to recall
The attic, the dust, that was used to stall.
Oh, hail one that dares to crawl
Out of sight, out of mind.
Sunflowers, tulips, roses and all,
The fairy that withdraws the pall.
A spiteful befall.
Ocean waves, known to leman,
The echoing within a shell hidden under damp sand.
Floating in space, drifting on wood.
Isolation, fear,
Scent of salt and rotten pier.
A story told by sailors and elves alike,
A history, a history to dislike.
An entombment used to engulf the rage,
A minor death, left to drown and age.
One can remember some
While one can remember all.
But she– the one who dares to question,
Argue against her majesty, his bride,
Remembers all.
As it was she,
Who died.
The attic, the castle,
The meadow and the sea–
Something that one tends to forget because no one is free.
Do you see her soul?
Do you see the fairy fly?
Or have you forgotten
That night–
When the flowers started to die.
Wither, winter, spring and grow,
The elves dancing– prancing for gold.
But one elf does not twirl or beg,
They are meant for the flower bed.
Lying and crying,
Mourning and laughing.
The smell of salt and sound of hail,
Oh, please don’t forget the veil.
Flowers,
The honey, the comb.
Iris, Peony, and Manuka are thrown
Not at her tomb stone, no.
But at the majesty’s, the lord,
And no one below.
--------------------------------------------
In truth
The Queen’s light-hearted winter.
Cold, bitter,
We always knew he was a quitter.
The heavens, the uranian,
Look at the new Heather!
Romanticists broach vastly
To a new moon.
The witless prince thought he could swoon?
Ha.
Praise the rise of the skies,
Praise the rise of the star clusters.
My heart, oh my,
To see someone’s whole life in a night’s sky.
The yearn, the mourn, the emptiness,
For something that wasn’t even there.
A new moon, or a new dark age?
The Queen’s dark spring,
Pasque flowers and lilies of valleys.
Worshipping a wedding ring,
Bewailing a regrettable demise.
From dawn to nightfall,
From love to loathe.
An oath meant to be broken.
Flatter thy, satisfy he
Who dares question the crown.
Hate, hate.
Ball gowns and wedding cake.
How can one forget
The Heather, heaven, heathen?
I’m not one to shiver and click
When one thought they were slick.
Who thought a royal like me could see a fallen crown?
I can be sincere,
I don’t need the roses to be red.
Just listen to me
And there won’t be bloodshed.
Who dares to question the crown?
Who dares to question me?
Pasque flowers and lilies does not mean you’re free.
She had to die,
The skies were aligned.
The new moon is my oath
And it will not break.
Which they seem to not understand…
I’m always awake.
Oh, welcome the new dark age.
Oh, welcome the new cage.
Pixies and fairies does not belong to me
But what’s the point of trying to flee?
-------------------------------------------------
A human in a mushroom house
A funeral for someone who dares to question power,
a shadow obligated to cower.
A love towards another could be a one way stream,
while the amour propre of the other could be dead scream–
a sleeping lake.
When will my Inamorato wake?
When will fairies start singing for thy
Instead for the Queen?
Oh, her majesty, the Queen,
What a joke, what a pity!
Nothing seems to make them witty,
Their own Queen died, not from poison.
Pixie dust doesn’t fix everything, does it?
His love, his bride.
A fairy that reminded him of the clouds
Who kissed the sun in a hush lullaby.
As the moon, red as blood can be,
Replaced it at night.
The Queen was replaced, yes!
By a human, no less.
A minor death, left to rot…
As the human queen, was never caught.
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In truth
Archive #15 | copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's Note: Hallo, second poem of the new series is here! Enjoy :)
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In truth
The Queen’s light-hearted winter.
Cold, bitter,
We always knew he was a quitter.
The heavens, the uranian,
Look at the new Heather!
Romanticists broach vastly
To a new moon.
The witless prince thought he could swoon?
Ha.
Praise the rise of the skies,
Praise the rise of the star clusters.
My heart, oh my,
To see someone’s whole life in a night’s sky.
The yearn, the mourn, the emptiness,
For something that wasn’t even there.
A new moon, or a new dark age?
The Queen’s dark spring,
Pasque flowers and lilies of valleys.
Worshipping a wedding ring,
Bewailing a regrettable demise.
From dawn to nightfall,
From love to loathe.
An oath meant to be broken.
Flatter thy, satisfy he
Who dares question the crown.
Hate, hate.
Ball gowns and wedding cake.
How can one forget
The Heather, heaven, heathen?
I’m not one to shiver and click
When one thought they were slick.
Who thought a royal like me could see a fallen crown?
I can be sincere,
I don’t need the roses to be red.
Just listen to me
And there won’t be bloodshed.
Who dares to question the crown?
Who dares to question me?
Pasque flowers and lilies does not mean you’re free.
She had to die,
The skies were aligned.
The new moon is my oath
And it will not break.
Which they seem to not understand…
I’m always awake.
Oh, welcome the new dark age.
Oh, welcome the new cage.
Pixies and fairies does not belong to me
But what’s the point of trying to flee?
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