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Message in a BottleIt sways and it moves through the waves of yesterday,
It's writer long gone and so far away,
It hopes to be read by anyone who dares to try to get it out of the bottle,
It's coiled up so tight inside the bottle,
The only companion it has,
It wishes for a reader to pear inside,
To read its inscription of hope for a better day,
To read and decode its message,
Its message for help and for hope that someone else cares,
Someone else to confide in these troubled times,
It is a message on a mission,
A mission to find its writer a reader,
A reader that is hard to find as it drifts on and on through the years,
Its hope wavers,
Its hope shrinks,
As the years goes by,
It turns brown as its heart hardens,
It begins to want no one to ever read it,
To ever read its message,
To ever break it from its safe haven from the damaging waves,
But as it slides gently upon the shore,
It sighs with relief as it lies there with its hope restored,
Its heart slowly begins to soften and unfold,
As the reader break
The SaviourIt had crushed, been shattered into a million pieces that were scattered all over world. Each place, each memory hiding a tiny piece. A piece of what once was a whole and complete, had been laid out, broken on the muddy, dirty ground. Each person's foot print tainting it, each person who had done me wrong has left their mark. They had left me stamped on and drained out, drained out of energy and emotion. They left me there, there to evaporate into nothingness. Into something so far gone, so far out into the black abyss, the blackest ocean. I had tried to stay afloat, to swim back to shore. But the current was too strong and unusual, i could never have reached it, ever. I had run out of everything, most of all, the will to keep going. To pull out of its black, thick and sticky hold. I had let it drag me down and suffocate me, i had let it take over. Let it run its very long and drawn out course. I had sunk to the deepest of oceans, the deepest of all abysses. I had almost reached the en
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More