http://slow.writerscafe.org/Tristan The original writings of author Tristan en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776239353 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 In mind of summer fields and garments of liliesworn, stroking like gossamer andpressing pale, wan and tender andbringing blush to her cheeks like rising streaksof scarlet across the sky.Ribboned gaze of sunshine's rayschasing the coquettish roses wholift their leaves and sway on stems;her own limber.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Tristan/837467/ This is an old work. Three years, to be exact. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Tristan/836787/ Givemy enemies common visageAnd of my lovers the same body,Without difference being equally expendable. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Tristan/836715/ Amber dunesSweet collisions of labyrinthine turnsInterlocked in the dual moonsOf your eyes, bittersweet spurnsTrimmed and laced with light.A harvest of colour in a pale face,You own my aesthetic heart with all rightAnd I don’t dare fend off this vital crazeThat fulfils me a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Tristan/834635/ Let me make it fairly clear to you, reader of mine: my two greatest loves are (and respectively, were) art - and dead. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Tristan/833212/ My love story has a happy ending all of its own. Of course it’s happy – Lukas died happy (enough), and I killed him happily. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Tristan/833048/ When she began collecting it wasn't for the ideas of people. She liked the feel of them, the press of skin against skin and the sound of breaking bone. It tasted like the metal grit of psychosis on her tongue, licking against her teeth.He was the rebirth itself. He was made of flesh, obviously, thro.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Tristan/832179/ A motion picture is what our lives were like; a B-grademovie with the frames brushing by,but never really touching on us [like an on-screen lie].The plot didn't thicken but ran right throughlike cake-mix that was far too watery to reallydevelop into anything [something i used the director for].But t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Tristan/832029/ The reeds on the water were of the same guache cobalt blue (and midnight, one layered stroke over the other) as the moor. Dark green brush strokes peeked out from scraper-slashes of the top layer of paint and all around him the colours crushed in on him, a comforting quilt of what everybody else saw.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Tristan/831898/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Tristan/831866/ Crystalline powder and aching bones, remedied hopes andForlorn memories, glances over the dusted frames of the pictures,Grasping at the haunting sound of gasping upstairs where canaries,Caged and frozen, blood-cold, lay in trance-like death,Hanging above on countless hooks, those with crushed domes .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Tristan/831865/