Welcome to a feature in which I will be highlighting some of the Daily Deviations from the past 7 days. This feature aims to further promote and share some of the amazing artwork our Community Volunteers have selected, and I hope you will all enjoy either discovering some art you have missed, or re-admiring the Daily Deviations you've seen this past week. Please feel encouraged to 
this journal, and go check out each artist's gallery, to support our amazing community 
this journal, and go check out each artist's gallery, to support our amazing community Raven and the DoveCry mercy,<da:thumb id="492083654"/>
and remember
(though locked with a key)
In this place called memory.
Where truth is bounty, thou can'st not run
Yet it be born unto misery.
The dove flies with the raven
Dark with light;
Together, they shant exist...
As the wind in the hand
face answereth to water,
And the sands spill forth of the fist.
If life be like unto love without thee
Than rather, I'd die this day;
My only true love,
for whom I am born;
Through wrong choice
my heart knows the grave.
As a firery arrow pierced to the heart
By this, my love awakened
To witness the cruelty engulfed in his soul
By essence, we are forsaken...
Be thou forever therefore, vigilant!
With a steadfast eye;
Give thyself unto, her care.
Let dove behold dove -
through the heaven's light
THE CRYS OF HELL
Should the raven be there.
©
words to say to your reflectioni am a collection of dust and stars,<da:thumb id="501032686"/>
blue luster in a sea of inky void.
i am a tongue licking lips, clicking against teeth,
shaping sounds that matter.
i am the lightning that explodes in purple storm clouds,
four miles of haphazard beauty
on a lonely night.
i am the sea in autumn, still holding the warmth of a summer of sunlight,
though the air outside is cold
by now.
i am the snow at 6am.
i have not been touched, not stepped on. my surface is smooth as glass.
i am the snow at 6pm.
i am still beautiful.
i am the sound of rain just before sunrise
on a sunday morning.
i am the swirl of cream in a coffee,
blossoming and unfolding like a galaxy.
i am the smell of lavender
after a storm.
i am breathing.
The Art of Poetry KillingWhen I find an old poem
Packaged beneath an allegory
Or taped beside a piece of prose,
Warm and balmy and still swollen
Ripe with the undisturbed
Words
Within their plastic wrapper,
I untangle its cellophane bindings
To find it's too old
And too stale for the proper use of a poem
So I pluck out its
Strings
Like some guts of a creature
And sew them
Onto other dust poems
Like the mismatched socks
Of a child
Just like murder is an art,
I still walk away with ink on my hands.
