three ghost deerssome time before the time you're readingthree ghost deers by BluestWaves
this happened once or twice,
and happened right before the dawn, the hour of the wolf.
And so it was, a man awoken by the cries of moths
put on his boots, and with a prayer left home for the woods.
The master hunter hidden behind the leaves
of the evergreen tree,
waits upon a stir or whisper, or a wisp of wind.
(But there is no one on the clearing.)
He waits like one that waits for death
but death is not a chance;
he waits for waiting is becoming that
what he now hunts.
But souls that roam are not to take,
for roam again they must, and
grazing leaves of grass that withered, they
linger but come to pass.
and will the master hunter hidden,
count the stars above- he might see them
just how they flicker before the darkness falls.
And one, two, three ghost deers flicker too, like the stars,
and for a fraction you can see them; blink and gone they are.
And so the hunter waits with patience that he does not have
for something that was never there becau
first worldfirst world by BluestWaves
be the epilogue to the story I never wrote,
brave the storm,
the you I never met, roaming the wastelands.
(On the shores of the end of the world,
be a wisp, be an illusion,
I'll be the voice in the wind
and the waves, and the Tanu.)
And you, be the version of you that conquers
the unsullied fiords.
Be the wings of the gull,
go on forever,
get off the ferry and
run to the cliff.
Overlook the world,
tame the cape of storms.
thoughts III wasn't catching mosquitoes waitingthoughts II by BluestWaves
on an empty cup of coffee for
a sign of you.
I was trying to catch inspiration while trying not to die
but dying is easier than making beautiful things,
it's not fair.
Funny how these minutes I waste writing these words are the same
minutes you'll waste reading them, and they're pointless.
I think we writers can catch time,
trap it forever in pointless word-minutes.
Loathsome creatures, we are-
well, if time is gold and words are time,
I don't think I entirely believe in syllogisms.
But there is hope, after 11pm:
in a night like any other night the wind is always
saving me from myself.
thoughtsthe dark is deep and the silence wise,thoughts by BluestWaves
the night is long and the wait is mild,
but come the rains, the sun then shines,
and gone the clouds there come the stars,
not once felt I true peace alone
no note I sing becomes my song
and no one's true, and nothing's home,
not like the place where I come from.
A journal post to explain it all, and then I let you wander in the ice, and hope that, some day, you'll come back to tell me your story.
seven days of beach
From [February 23, 2012] to [March 1, 2012]
eastern berlin series
A whimsical collection of shots derived from self-prompts, using titles of popular deviations on deviantART's main page, from [May 18, 2012] to [June 8, 2012]; dealing with break-up, heartbreak, Scandinavian pop music, empty apartments; and the inevitable process of self-reinvention.
the iceland series
"he said he had survived many winters..."
Part I (he looked like iceland) bluestwaves.deviantart.com/art…
Part II (polarity) bluestwaves.deviantart.com/art…
Part III (Navigator) bluestwaves.deviantart.com/art…
Part IV (knight) bluestwaves.deviantart.com/art…
Part V (corium)
Part VI (dusk) bluestwaves.deviantart.com/art…
Part VII (Navigator II) bluestwaves.deviantart.com/art…
dolls and art and life and death and the sea behind my eyelids and a thousand voodoo huts; all revolting around the scent of the wilderness, dancing at the edge of the end of the world.
the most beautiful thing anyone has ever written for meOnce I Followed HerOnce I Followed Her
I remember looking at her walking slowly on the road, flanked by snowy hills and frost-ridden trees and grasses. Curious and intrigued, I followed her down the cold road. She was daydreaming, I could see it in her eyes, her hands, the way she walked holding on to her bike beside her. I smiled as she past by me, her eyes staring at the ground in an attempt to protect her face from the biting north winds. She was so sweet, it’s just like her to find herself walking against the freezing wind.
She walked for miles, ice crunching under her feet. I followed, close by, sometimes walking behind her, other times running ahead of her, looking back every now and again. Then, having noticed the wind giving way, she stopped by an abandoned, broken fence by the road. Or was it a bench, I couldn’t say. She sighed softly, her warm breath condensing in white, cloudlike vapor in front of her. She looked around, and when our faces crossed paths, I realized just how much I