Literature's Next Frontier


Flamingo

POETRY:

A New Scene

by Ryan Carter Quill-orange

I think it's time for a new scene
Same movie, different screen 
If you know what I mean

New characters, same attitude 
People that understand lifes magnitude
And knows the meaning of gratitude

Or can I fast forward now 
To the end and I take my bow

To the time where all I hear is cheers
And my thoughts have never been more clear

I'm ready for a new scene
I'm ready for a new me


Posted on: March 20 2014

0 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

she was left alone

by LillySkyWorks Quill-orange

she is left alone to fight her thoughts

her depression creeping over her like 

water seeps over a body left in the water

left to float away.

she is left alone to ease her pain

her tear stained face ghost white,

metal friend by her side

blood dripping down her thigh.

she is left alone too many times 

her body found in the tub

stained pink over white,

metal friend by her side,

water creeping over her like her

depression once did

 

(open to suggestions on improvement) 


Posted on: March 13 2014

3 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

The Music of Our Dying World

by The Essence of Poetry Quill-yellow

\                                                     /

We are dancing to fascism and egoism,

     Waltzing to capitalism and imperialism,

         Bobbing our heads like puppets of isms,

 

\                                                                   /

Our minds become hypnotised with this conclusion,

 To build large fortunes and more confusion,

             Captivated by the evils of materialism,

                         We are all twirling in this illusion,

 

                            -

But the truth whispers behind the curtains,

Where there is poverty, famine,

Corruption and disproportion,

While the rich stand in ovation,

and applaud the distribution of capitalism.

 

In our silent moments of humanity,

Our conscience cuts the strings loose,

and the guilt begins to hum through,

We lay disabled and wide-eyed,

The sound too overwhelming to listen to.

 

We give our hand to belief,

and bow to nothing,

 

\                                                          /

Waiting to be possessed by our puppeteers,

   To be subjugated and oppressed,

           To dance,

To the music of our dying world,

                          To dance and clap,

                               As the truth grows louder,

                                  To dance and to clap and laugh,

Until we slowly grow deaf together.

 

13/2/14

Shamsa Al- Shaksy (The Essence of Poetry)

 

 

 

 

 


Posted on: February 22 2014

0 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

Inside my heart

by Lyra Quill-red

Inside my heart came the crashing wave of loneliness

Like the stinging wind in an enigmatic dream

Inside my heart lays a summer of roaring wind

Subtle reminders

Of soft whispers amidst the hazy smoke

Inside my heart stores nights of restless sleep in May

Where specks of shattered glass glittered like blades

Inside my heart is a song of sand and silver

And arrows of love disperses into time

Inside my heart?


Posted on: June 25 2013

2 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

With Neruda

by Moon Puppy Quill-yellow

          It happens     I’m tired

               of being a woman.          As it happens,

     I happen   upon boutiques;          and at parties

   I keep    to the corners,

like a crepe paper lamp:     translucent

          and gasping in search of air.

 

                  On crowded subway platforms,   I press

            myself away   from certain penetrating stares;

     while on concrete curbsides,          I shudder

at the call and clack of my heels.

     I’d prefer to walk in

          bare feet, on

            wet grass, or

               through the muddy squish of

         some riverbed      somewhere.

 

I’d love to get   just one day

          free    

     of technology,

               and irony.

One day free of banalities.

 

     I happen to have tired   of my lashes;

and my freckles;

     of my braids;

          and the soap infused scent    

               of my skin.     As it happens,

                  I’m tired               top to bottom

                                             of being a woman.

 

     At moments,   I wish

I could sprint          through this city

      bare;  

   my hair    

in flames;

          swinging

     between fire escapes

               and pouncing

                    without warning

            upon pedestrians below.

 

Daggers don’t really draw me,

   but I’m sure

     it would be sublime      and beyond

          to dance across gravestones,

                    bleary drunk

               off whiskey

          and a thunderous sky,

     until my feet begin to bleed

and reality melts away.          And

            if I were haunted      every day

     by the ghosts          of those dead

whose sleep   my paces

            had disturbed,   

         I wouldn’t mind,          I’m sure.

I’d dance upon them still. 

 

          And isn’t it better

to be a root   in the dark     than

      a raisin in the sun;

            a dream deferred?

     Isn’t it better      to lie in wait,

                  like a lion   in the weeds,

       eyeing its prey          and readying itself

            day by day      for the ideal moment

               to spring upon      and seize?

 

     My roots are twisted

with the weight      of generations.   But

               I can’t decide which evil is worse –

          to grow lopsided

     off course;       or to become

just another log in the woodpile.

   I don’t want to go the way

      of those who went before me;  

          nor steal the sun   from those to come. 

 

And for the most part,   the days pass by,

   each one      much like the last,

          just like the next.     But then,

     now and again,      

I’m visited by the most sordid of Mondays

         or Wednesdays

     and left spanked     and stomped

     in a crumpled pile

                         like a week old

               half read     subpar

                         periodical.

 

And then, I drag myself 

     elbows and knees     mottled purple   and blue   and black

          back   to the Land of the Living.     

   Past   blighted erstwhile auto shops

      and   into Korean groceries where

         seething cats reign and   

                  eye me with disdain. 

   Along   sidewalks

crowded   with orphaned books

     and side streets     coated thick

               with copper colored leaves that

          seem to have fallen

                       all at once          as if

               in accord with a suicide pact.

 

And I wait      at bus stops that stick in my chest

       like unvoiced protests     swallowed instead;

          and in post office queues that never ever end,

   I grow older            with each stamp licked  

            each moment passed.         And I live

         in unspeakable fear          of the day

     when I’ll lose my hair and my teeth.  

I won’t even tell of the hours     I’ve wasted

      in search of wrinkles     at the mercy of my mirror.   Which is why

   I’ve taken to collecting stones     and buttons

         and magazine clippings

                     and rippings.

 

So I wrap myself   in a web of wires

         and assorted melodies

     and          I pass like a hot knife

   through honey buttered mornings   that

      dissolve      all too soon

   into under seasoned    afternoons.

And once in a while,     some lost souls

     might happen     to catch my gaze.

        But other times   I am lost myself

   in thought            and so, I leave them adrift

 

            like expired sighs     that hover and then rise

 

                   with certain dreams in tow.

 


Posted on: March 08 2013

2 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

Beauty Dressed in Wood

by The Essence of Poetry Quill-yellow

Oh great infallible sounding strings,
sing to me your sonorous notes,
Speak the language of harmony,
and so it sung...

 

I enumerate each interval,
sharp and flat.

 

Entering the state of genial torpor,
Steadily drifting into entrancement,
Captivated by the melodic zen,
I drift,

 

Drifting into a high;
I drift,

 

and then stroked a low pitch G...
a grave yet languid end,

 

Extracted from paradise I wake,
with a cough to a piquant smell of rosin,
Then a courteous, admiring smile;
to the exhilarating beauty in my hands.

 

Shamsa Al- Shaksy (The Essence of Poetry)10/2/13

All rights reserved © 

 


Posted on: February 12 2013

4 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

A Curse For You

by GetBornAgain Quill-red

This is a little something for an old friend and a new favourite:

A curse for you, my one-time love.
Who once it seemed, to me alone
had walked the heavens far above
their beauty couldn't match your own.

And yet all things, so pure and clean
are false beneath the liars grin.
The evil stare, a devil-fiend
as poison, in my veins, it swims.

The air grows thick, my brain it grows-
heavy with thought and incense fumes
I lean in quick, and curse the rose,
that led me to an early tomb.


Posted on: January 28 2013

1 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

Weird Little World

by William Wakefield Quill-blue

Step inside and see
how He does not
talk to his family
He does not talk to his friends

Weirdo

He has his rules
and his extra long guitars

It’s cold inside his
Weird Little World

The outside chatters
like a vicious Peyton Place
they pass around their dirty laundry

And they point their crooked fingers
He’s had enough of playing their silly games

His sister told him to
take his reasons for blacking out
down into
his miserable grave

I’m glad he shared her letter
It makes it easier to see
the kind of treatment
given to his family

He has his rules
and his extra long guitars

But it’s cold inside
his Weird Little World


Posted on: November 28 2012

4 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

Dead Trees

by William Wakefield Quill-blue

She’s drawn to
Dead Trees

The way their branches
reach skyward
like skeleton hands
touching space

She likes the way
they never move
with their
stumps
left to sit
hollow and full
of bugs

She’s drawn to
Dead Trees
The way they
whisper secrets
about their branches’ fractals

the way they reach
skyward
the way they never
move

like fingers
reaching out
to empty skies

Her hands are like
skeleton hands
is it any wonder

She’s drawn to
Dead Trees?


Posted on: November 12 2012

9 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

Mary, Mary

by Moon Puppy Quill-yellow

I am a bowl of blue blown glass,

Chipped slightly at the rim,

Stained by terpsichorean flames

From the candle cradled within

 

I am railroads, etched

Into palms devoid of pigment

   Fortune, future, past, and present

      I am folded, clasped in prayer

 

I am a run in black silk stockings,

Impotent, stripped of allure,

Torn in undressing, and crumpled

On a stranger's bedroom floor

 

I am musty heat, hissing

   A churlish radiator

      I am fretting in the corner,

      Taking issue with religion

 

I am a snatch of melody,

The remainder elusive, beyond recall

   An unanswerable question,

   Artlessly scrawled on a public bathroom stall

 

Fingers clutching

At sweat dampened sheets

   I am barbed wire, rusted

   From twelve years of rain

      Tendons stretched taut,

      I am tugging on the leash

      Of the life I have yet to claim

 

I am a smudge on bifocal lenses

   Waterspots on the off color convex of a spoon

      I am unable, some days, to see the forest for the trees  

         I am disinclined to blame it on the moon 


Posted on: November 06 2012

9 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

Vinegar Girl

by William Wakefield Quill-blue

Vinegar Girl

She tastes like Easter Eggs
paranoia is her passion
speech can’t do justice
to her legs

Vinegar Girl belongs to no one
she’s up late around the pathetic
like you

Take a peep at her cheap past
confessions of aggression
her clogged dialogue
and the meddlesome figments

Vinegar Girl now belongs to everyone
her make-up is on the inside
vision can’t do justice
to her thin ice

take a peep at her clogged machinery
confessions to digressions 
From the truth

She belongs to you inside

With her it’s always Easter

Leave it to the amateurs
pleased to meet them

Blame the professionals
and their lies
they can’t stand everything
well equipped to fail the game

leave it to her beaver
and its outstanding
hairdresser

Witness the terrible death of novelty
the end of sympathy
the end of a tragic story
forever removed from you

I’m sorry my feet
did this to your doormat
I’m sorry once again
for all the trouble


Posted on: October 07 2012

7 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

Biology

by StephanieChen Quill-red

Lately I am prone to noticing things:

The way you nervously hand me

test tubes and beakers

lined up by height like first graders

in front of a school photographer,

the way your breathing slows after

dissecting a frog, the smell of burnt

sugar from the experiment next door

hovering beside us.

 

We laugh sometimes about the kids

with famous parents who throw

candlelit Hamptons garden parties with

bushes in the shape of their dogs;

kids who fly first class to Fiji to

log their community service hours.

But sometimes I wonder if we would both

rather be just that,

sitting next to each other while being

served chicory and grape salad followed

by prawns and ice cream sundaes,

each wondering which one of us

feels further away.  

 


Posted on: August 19 2012

6 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

Orange

by Michele Todd Quill-yellow

Feed me more
Head back
Eyes closed 
Mouth open

I feel
The burst of sunshine
From your tongue
As it licks my lips


Posted on: August 11 2012

5 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

The Lonely Own the Earth

by Venus in Furs Quill-purple

The lonely own the earth:

the 9-to-5s, the politicians,

the ones who say

“let us go to war,”

the women that smile in

big houses, sleep in sexless

beds, teach the children

to love the loveless, aseptic

madmen who own the earth,

to hope, even, that’s what

they will become. 

 

They will.


Posted on: June 27 2012

9 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

The Stuff

by Charlotte Storm Quill-blue

Red eyes, and huge appetite

Darkened lips, and hazy nights

Tell me if you taste the stuff,

Don't you dare lie

If you don't remember my name

So I can tell you goodbye

 

It's not the smoke that waters my eyes

Or the flame

It's the way it's breaking down your life

And my heart

But, no, it's just a game

 

I could step outside

If I wanted fresh air

But what I've been through

It'd still be there

With the pain, the care I gave to the ones I knew,  

Who are smoking just the same stuff as you.

 

And with the flame that lights the end of your world

Lights the raging fire in my heart

That makes me want to take the pipe

Take the joint

Blow it up, annihilate it, break it all apart.

 

You don't turn to me,

Or care what it does,

You aren't awake

Just a walking zombie

Looking for another dose

 

And you won't understand how it feels,

Like deja vu, meeting someone again,

Like twice isn't enough,

Caring for someone

Who lives off the stuff

 

So tell me if you taste the stuff,

Don't you dare lie

If you don't even recall who I am,

Or what my name is,

So I can tell you goodbye.

 

 


Posted on: May 20 2012

10 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

My friend

by Charlotte Storm Quill-blue

She pulled me away

And down we sat, to keep me

From cussing them back;

And I think,

I used to have a sister who'd look out for me like that.

 

She tickled me silly

And I laughed so loud;

She tried to give me a kiss

And I wriggled away and thought,

I used to have a sister who'd cheer me up like this.

 

She listened patiently,

To my very own rap

And I stopped and thought, 

I used to have a sister who supported me like that.

 

I punched her on the shoulder,

She scribbled on my work

Then we began to laugh,

And, faintly,

I remembered I used to have a sister who'd play with me like that.

 

She held my books while i cried,

And all I remembered was,

I had a sister who left without goodbye.

 

And I'm watching her

Watching out for me,

Wondering where I'd be without her,

'Cause,

Sometimes, 

I think she's more of a sister than the sister I had ever was.

 

 

 


Posted on: May 07 2012

3 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

No More

by Charlotte Storm Quill-blue

I can faintly remember

How I'd burst in your room

Young, whining, pleading

For my best sister to

Tuck

Me 

In.

 

Groaning, you'd trudge in;

I'd toussle my sheets as much as I could

So you'd have to

Give

Me 

More

Attention.

 

To mess with me,

You'd throw the blanket entirely over me,

Squalling, I'd throw it off,

And you'd swoop

To

Give

Me

A

Kiss

Goodnight. 

 

Where are you now,

I don't think I'll ever know.

Or

Even

Care.

 

Because it all aches,

Like my heart

Is being squeezed, pressed;

Dry

Like

A

Sponge.

 

Do your barefeet touch the street,

Do you like the new ink on your skin?

Through the dope smoke that clouds your encephalon

Do you remember me,

Deep

Down

Within?

 

It's like a flashing montage,

The day you left,

You were gone so fast,

Then, it's the day I spent

Sobbing

In

Spanish

Class.

 

Glass world

Shattered in a breath,

Obliterated by a step,

The close of a door

When you acted like you loved me,

No

More,

No

More.

 


Posted on: April 27 2012

2 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

Can you think of a title 'cause I can't.

by Charlotte Storm Quill-blue

Clutching my own hand

Born, alone, I learn to stand

Patting my own back

I celebrate myself

Packing my own sack

And I long forget my health

Because he doesn't exist

And trust isn't real

Add it to my list

And get rid of what I feel

Blank like paper

Falling like rain

I'll run first

And cry later

Can't look at myself

Or those broken eyes

Make myself stop dreaming

Before I get hurt by lies

Because soul mates are illusional

And we're just delusional

On my faith forsaken soul

Life has taken its toll

But enough is never enough

So let me run

Break me from these cuffs


Posted on: April 09 2012

15 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

The Bamboo

by Charlotte Storm Quill-blue

I watched the bamboo dying

                Sadly, silently, sighing  

It belonged to a girl; fiery phoenix bird  

                Greenless, lifeless, leafless

It cannot utter a word

 

I watched her parents give it to her

                Sapling, tender and gentle

It was nourished everyday

                Promising, vulnerable, sentimental

 

It stood tall under the artificial sun

                Its world a sugar-sweet grapefruit-

Flying trees, talking knolls seemingly begun

                But a phoenix is a phoenix

 

Resting precariously in the marbles 

                It depended on her everyday

For a drink of life, a glimpse of light

                But hope began to fade.

 

It called out to me; me a simple wren

                Its only company gray bunnies    

A life of sweet sugar

                Turned bitter honey

 

We watched the scintillating phoenix

                A storm cloud always in haste

Under our roof it rained everyday

                But the plant never got a taste

 

The lightning struck

                And our world shook

Then suddenly the sky changed hue

                Shambles, emotions, detriment, came slowly into view

 

Her parents took up the bamboo

                Thunder echoing perpetually in their chests

Green to yellow, forever anew

                There was almost nothing left.

 

 


Posted on: April 07 2012

8 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

inanimate irresolution

by Moon Puppy Quill-yellow

a brown leaf: draped over the lip of the infinity pool; wavering 

in the gentle persistence of its overflow; wetly plastered 

against its granite brink; undulating unremittingly --

as if on the verge of a momentous decision. 


Posted on: December 17 2011

9 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

Walking in the Night

by Frederick Bridger Quill-yellow

She demands nothing of you in a place that demands

Everything of you, a place of maddening humility

Where tall evergreens somehow look naked in waning

Light.  Everyone is disappearing and it doesn’t

Matter anymore.  It’s either too early

Or a decade too late.  Sometimes the worst for you

Is the best.  I climb a slope carpeted in thigh-high

Talking grass, taste mysterious forbidden

Scents on a rusty wind that drags useless

Words in violent crescendos from deep inside me. 

This is not like those days when I saw

Evergreen boughs as our sky.  Now, angry

Clouds menace my thoughtscapes, draw

Unwilling memory from a place long-locked. 

 

I once lived inside files, folders

Piled in the corner by the lopsided bookcase, lost

Pieces of me crumpled like old newspaper

That didn’t take long to package up and throw out. 

Perhaps the Aurora is out there, at the end of a long

Walk, radiant emissions of light streaming

Across a northern sky, and in that time

Between dark and light, when everything is silent

And filled with shadow, I could call her darlin’. 

I so want this to be a time of celebration,

A time of quiet joy for the senses,

But nighttime skies often grow cloudy.


Posted on: December 17 2011

4 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

Fifty-Fifty

by Delicate Flower Quill-blue

A man of fifty is to be admired

while a woman of fifty is usually fired.

He's considered suave and debinair

while she's in a panic about her gray hair.

And how is it fair

that his love handles are cute

but her bulges and sagging

negate her pursuit.

The fifty year old man is experienced and wise

while the half-century woman

is nothing short of despised.

So, if you are a man

who is fifty years old,

relish the year

because, after I'm told-

It's downhill from there -

you'll ache everywhere

and you'll yearn for the days

when you had a full head of hair.


Posted on: September 20 2011

5 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

If I Could See Through Your Eyes

by R. W. Scott Quill-green

 If I could see through your eyes, even for a moment, what would I see?

If I could be inside your mind, if I could hear your thoughts, how would my world be changed?

If your ears could be mine, and I could hear my “accent” through yours, how would I sound?

If I could taste food the way you do, know your preferences, what you crave, what you abhor, would I understand you better?

What if I really understood your sense of humor?  Knew what you find truly beautiful, and what you fear in the back of your secret mind?

Is what I call red the same color you see when you name it red?  Can you identify all the greens in a forest by name?

I have had this wish, this burning need to see, to experience, to know, for such a long time, but the best I can do is “put myself in your place”, and only in my mind. 

I can only guess.

Still, I know of no better way to understand you, or that person from another land I met today, or even my brother.  Imagination must be the stand-in for true knowledge, because even if I sit with you and ask, you will respond to your version of my questions, with your version of the answers, and, not being able to share my eyes, my ears, my mind, you will answer as best you can, but your answer will be in a tongue I will never truly understand.

 

[Reprinted from Uphill Writing: November 29, 2010]


Posted on: August 31 2011

6 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

Keys

by Lebo Quill-red

The keys are everywhere

Strewn about like leaves after a storm

Lying, waiting to be found

But hoping to not, as a lover forlorn

 

Half buried beneath the surface

Digging themselves still deeper down

Away from the hand trying to grab them back

Slipping as frustrations abound

 

While in a back pocket oft forgotten

Recalling in a moment its power

To open a box once dormant

Brings always a tempestuous shower

 

Though this cloud hovers over just one

It can be escaped with some guile

As anguish lines the exit route

Patience is required for the last mile

 

Finally a brutal sun beats down

Eroding the shield that insulates the pain

Jagged metal edges melting with time

Wishing for calm on this abyssal plain


Posted on: August 30 2011

3 Comments

5.0 / 5

POETRY:

The Song of Lilith

by Rhiannon Firehorse Quill-red

I am Lilith WillowDragon of the Tribe of the Dark Witch…

I am Priestess of Ishtar-Aphrodite…

I am Priestess of Dummuzi-Adonis…

I am devotee of my Divine Companion, Ereshkigal-Hekate…

Tiamat and Epona are my Spirit Sisters…

This is my life…

This is my song…

 

I am the Midwife who welcomes the Sun

I am the Sacred Whore who revels beneath the Moon

I am the Sorceress of Deep Yearning

I am the Dark Enchantress of the Carnal Gateway

I am the Muse of Self-Revelation…

I am the Acolyte of the Twilight Crossroads

I am the Mistress of Lost Souls

I am Priestess of the Yoni and the Lingham

I am Qadishtu of the Goddess, She who washes away sorrow

And opens new gateways to ecstasy…

Heed my call!

 

I am the erotic cry of wilderness…

I am the perpetually shifting sands in morning’s first light…

I am the rains that shimmer in the wastelands…

I am the whispering of warm desert breezes on the twilight dunes

I am the stars whirling overhead

I am the witching hour’s silhouette before the horizon

I am the rushing flow of the rivers

I am the darkening indigo of the moody autumn heavens

I am the solitude of the oasis…

I stand between the river and the desert and lift my arms in honor to Mother Earth’s diversity…

Enter my Lady’s temple…

 

I am the Singer of Songs of the Compassionate Heart

I am the Sentinel of Mysteries

I am the Web-weaver of Poetry and I am the Scribe of Spirit Stories

I tell the tales of the Ancient Mother and Her Daughters

I soar with the spirits of the Blessed Ancestors

I glow with the eternal fire of the Qadishtu

I immerse myself in the Nectar of the Gods

I purify myself in the lightning fire of the Queen of Heaven

I balance all aspects of my life, light and shadow, and weave them together

to create the web that is my being.

Know thyself and prepare…

 

I am the Lover of Unwavering Heart and I am the Untamable One

I am Beloved of my Chosen and I am Pandemos to All

I am the sensual one of luscious thighs and I am the savage lust of Kunti,

succulent and hot

I am the hedonistic softness of feminine essence       and I am the hard fury of feminine rage…

I am the yielding flesh of Creation and I am the rigid coldness of Death…

I am the Unearthly Beauty and I am the Dangerous Sorceress…

I am the passion in a lover’s kiss and I am the terror in a lover’s parting…

I am the pulse of ancient rhythms…

I am the ecstasy of the primal dance…

I am the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone.

Bury your existence within my depths…

 

I am Destiny’s Mystic and I am Justice’s Fierce Huntress…

I am Child of the Ancient Ones, the Horse Clan and I am Mother of She Who Knows No Equal…

I am the farsighted night vision of Owl…

I am the healing venom and sensuality of Serpent…

I am the playful joy of Dolphin…

I am the strength and fierceness of Lioness…

I am the grace and beauty of Swan…

My taste is that of sweet cakes dipped in honey and cream…

My scent is a shadowy perfume, the spicy fragrance of late Autumn Harvests…

My will is my own, my Lady’s and my Lord’s and no other.

Surrender to this moment in time…

 

I am Daughter of the Golden-Crimson-Ebony Goddess and I am the consort of the Horned Lord of Nature…

I am Priestess of Ishtar-Aphrodite…

I am Priestess of Dummuzi-Adonis…

I am devotee of my Divine Companion, Ereshkigal-Hekate…

Tiamat and Epona are my Spirit Sisters…

I am Lilith WillowDragon of the Tribe of the Dark Witch…

This is my song…

This is my life.

We are One!


Posted on: August 29 2011

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