|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
TriggerI will be the victim and the cruel words on your lips
I will be the sin resting among your fingertips
I will be the innocence you lost so long ago
I will be the many things you never dared to know
I will be the throbbing heart and I will be your tears
I will be the basis of your undiscovered fears
I will be the aching mind, the troublesome disease
I will be the deadly heartbeat, you these things will please
I will be emotionless to make you seem so pure
I will find a beating heart, and then I'll find the cure
I will be the heartlessness that helps you to survive
I will pull the trigger just to make you seem alive...
Death Whispered A LullabyWhat's more to say about the sky that hasn't already been said a million-times over? It was a pleasant aquamarine blue, with a light accenting of clouds, spread out nice and evenly across the sky. The career master sergeant had been decked out flat on the dirty road, amongst a thick layer of rubble and brick, near the front of a large plaza structure. He had been stitched left to right, across the stomach, by an hidden medium machine-gun position.
It was so quiet that the ringing in his ears could just barely penetrate, but none of the sounds from the outside made it to his head. He didn't hear the gunfire or explosions. They weren't important to him anymore. He didn't hear another of his fellow soldiers' as he fired a rocket into the nest of enemy aggressors that had cut him down; the building's lobby exploded and collapsed in on itself from across the street. He heard nothing of it.
All the man heard and saw was a story being told by a tall, hooded figure with a scythe. It was his to
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
Keep in Touch!