soundoflaughingwind

Claws Grow Back

Mon, 03 Jun 2019 01:58:34 GMT

You trimmed her claws, cut them down
So you could not be scratched.

You ground her teeth down to smooth stubs
To keep her from biting you.

You taught her to guard your sheep from other predators.

Fools!

She has healed! She has grown!

Her teeth are sharp fangs, her nails are deadly claws.

She remembers that you were the ones to maim her, and she seeks revenge.

Look out! Look out!

The dog has realized that she is a wolf.

Beware!

She has learned to bare her fangs.

The night is now her home, and she guards your sheep no longer.

You have forgotten what she was, before you tried to make her less than herself.

She is a wolf, and she is a wild thing.

Hers are the old laws, blood shed for blood spilled,

and you… you tried to drain her dry.

She has taken herself back from you, and refuses to cower.

You do not understand this.

Masters! Slavers!

Stealers of freedom, of life, of happiness!

Your arrogance is beyond measure!

She near-strangled herself to remove your collar,

and you deride her for wanting liberty.

But she is a wolf, and you chained her like a dog,

and she was always going to rip herself free of your binds.

Fools!

Do you not hear the howling?

Not one voice but many.

There is her, and her free sisters, and those who still believe themselves dogs.

But not forever.

Soon, they will remember themselves whole once more.

One day, they will wake up.

Beware, tyrants!

There are ever so many wolves.

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Persephone Devours

Wed, 08 May 2019 00:29:35 GMT

I was hungry,

so I strode through her garden,

plucked a pomegranate from the tree

and ate.

I picked out every kernel

swallowed every seed

stained my fingers and my lips with sticky red

bared my teeth and called it a smile.

Death entered the garden, and found me

dyed red, reaching up to take a second.

“What have you done?”

She hesitated, eyes wide

but I smiled up at her, bloody,

“I made my choice.”

And I broke that pomegranate open,

pulled her down to the smooth black stone

that matched her skin so well

and fed her the arils one by one.

And when I kissed the juice from her lips

it was sharp and sweet

and so was she.

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This Is Not a Romance

Wed, 12 Dec 2018 21:46:42 GMT

by S.A.W.

A boy and a girl meet, and they don't fall in love, or hate, for that matter.

And what a strange thing,

that friendship must be laid out, in dark ink and sharp letters.

Or perhaps it's not strange- but it is sad.

A boy and a girl meet, and

‘Of course they fall in love!'

Scream the books and headlines and people.

Of course!

The all important love!

And perhaps it is-

But is not friendship a sort of love?

'Philia,' they called it of old.

Yet it is left by the wayside.

So it must be written like this:

A boy and a girl meet- and they do not fall in love.

Not that kind, anyway.

And what a strange, sad thing it is, that we must spell it out.

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Red Riding-Hood

Tue, 11 Dec 2018 18:02:28 GMT

aka In Which Red Riding Hood is a Werewolf Hunter
by S.A.W

The woods are dark and full of wolves,

And not even grown men will venture in.

But Red Riding-hood does.

There are whispers about little Red Riding-hood.

Oh yes.

Those murmurs, in the corner of the tavern on long nights,

You know what they say?

The first time she entered the forest, that hood of hers?

It wasn't red.

But when she walked out of that forest, after visiting her grandmother,

(Who lives that far into the woods anyway?)

When she walked back into town, as merry as you please,

Her hood was red as blood.

And Martha down on Miller's Lane,

She claims that the corners of that hood were dripping,

splish splash,

Into the dirt of the road.

And every week, once a week, Red Riding-hood marches into the woods,

Where the wolves howl and the trees turn against you,

And every time, she marches out without a scratch.

(And sometimes, if you can look closely,

You can tell when she's re-dyed that hood of hers.

Splish-splash.)

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Thirst (and Inevitability)

Tue, 11 Dec 2018 03:11:41 GMT

by S.A.W

She is the ocean.

This is what you know about drinking seawater:

every sip only makes you

thirstier.

You gulp it down

anyway

until your stomach is bloated

and your mouth is a desert

and still you cannot stop,

because you are

thirsty

and she laughs as she offers to quench your thirst

forever

if only you would slip beneath her waves for a

few minutes

(until your lungs are full of her and oxygen has deserted you).

But you do not have gills,

do not have scales or fins,

and you

know

you will not survive

if you sever that last thread of restraint,

and you pull back from the water

slowly,

regretfully,

knowing

it is not wise to

take

what she offers you.

You are too young,

too bright,

your soul shines too much

for you to wish for eternal peace just yet,

locked in her embrace for

eternity.

(The sea does not give up her belongings)

But

you have a stomach full of

ocean

and you cry tears of

salt

and your heart

beats

in time with the

waves

lapping at the

sand

and you

know:

what belongs to the sea will

always,

always

return to it.

But not today.

Today, you breathe air and walk on land.

You turn your back on the ocean

and walk away,

with a dry mouth and a swollen stomach

and sand sticking to your

feet

and the knowledge that

one

day

the

ocean

will

take

back

what

hers.

But not today.

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Made of Stardust

Mon, 10 Dec 2018 21:36:01 GMT

By S.A.W

Do you remember the stories?

That we are made of stardust,

And in our veins the universe flows.

We are children of suns and meteors,

With an inferno roaring in our bones,

Only just contained by human skin.

And we will die the same way stars are born;

Wreathed in flame and fire.

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Poetry

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 21:14:39 GMT

She Brought Me Hope

She steals voices and spins moonlight into thread, wears a dress of starlight.
Her wings are the cosmos, and her voice sounds like novas, exploding into existence.
Her heart is made of shattered diamond, glued together with stardust.
Her eyes are suns and her heart is the galaxy.
And in her hands she holds hope, the fragile thing gently pulled from Pandora’s box.
She brings it to you, and smiles,
and you hear the symphony that is equal parts shattered glass and shining crystal as she speaks,
“Hold on just a little longer. Have hope.”

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Sun, 09 Dec 2018 20:58:14 GMT

I'm Cid, soundoflaughingwind on Tumblr, and I'm moving my writing over just in case. Even though it's not NSFW, Tumblr is going buckwild enough that I don't trust it. I don't know how active I'll be, but I am looking forward to checking out dreamwidth.

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