wreckage of stars ;

"Stars were never peaceful. Never pretty; They don’t shine for anyone. They’re just-- - burning, burning burning. Stardust is their ( d e a t h ) . It was never beautiful." - (J.P.)

[lavenderfables]

[lifeinpoetry]

when you disappear from their lives, most people will remember you like an extinct / language : a strange sleight of tongue; a loss wrapped in lingua obscura. / a silent genocide of syntax.

Scherezade Siobhan, from “The Valium Bride,” published in Whale Road Review (via ofthemxses)

[lifeinpoetry]

To have burned & burned & burned.

S. A. Khanum, from “/ monster is /,” Winged Thing (via lifeinpoetry)

[muckingup]

Visit Original Link

UNKLE– The Answer (Trentemoller Remix)

[jamiechungdaily]

[lhzthepoet]

War will fight war will fight war. But, War is tired. Sometimes you have to know when to stop fighting. When to live.

Excerpt from Myth Untold // Ares / L.H.Z (via lhzthepoet)

[soracities]

Maybe there is no love on earth except the one we imagine we will win /  some day

Adonis, from ‘

Beginnings of the Body, Ends of the Sea’

(Fragments), Selected Poems (trans. Khaled Mattawa)

[empyrhien-blog]

sevrinxoconnell:

His approach to join her at the fire was loose, easy; predator’s muscles relaxed and liquid in the presence of a kindred spirit. Sevrin had always felt there was an undeniable tone of fellowship, of sorts, among murderers. It was an ultimately insignificant detail (as it wasn’t a factor that’d be cause for hesitation if it came down to another kill), but a tangible one nonetheless. No matter their reasoning, their moralities (or lack thereof), one did not take a life, watch their victim’s eyes dull and taste the notes of their blood in the air, without something in them changing - something in their frequency that he’d become attuned to over his long career of making people die.

“Blood IS the new black these days, you know,” he responded, perhaps more thoughtfully than was intended, taking her comment as a sort of invitation for a lounging once over down his companion’s chosen wardrobe. “And it does bring out that lethal little sparkle in your eyes, too.”

Sitting adjacent from her, he took the meal Eva offered with a short, upward nod in thanks. The soup was thin, far from gourmet even by apocalypse standards, but it was hot and the miles he had ahead of him would appreciate the calories no matter how they came.

At the mention of the bag, his lips twitched upwards into another grin, brows lifting in amusement at the comparison. “That bag’s worth a life’s supply of your shit soup. Besides, I don’t imagine think you’d have any use for it, anyway. Hell, the dumb bitched who hired me for it doesn’t even have a use for it,” he corrected, with a roll of his eyes. “Girls, am I right?”

A pause then, a curious gleam brightening his gaze before he reached back, grabbed the cord that kept the contents secure, and tossed the bag within her reach. “Want to see what half a damn pharmacy looks like?”

The soup warmed her hands even as the chill shaped around them, the fire doing the rest of the work on keeping warm bodies warm. His comment was well thought out for the one she’d thrown out, and Eva offered him a cocked brow in appraisal. Well of course, a seasoned look was nothing without some focal point to make it pop-- -the ‘lethal little sparkle,’ was it? Tilting her head with the accompanied edge of a smirk that knew all too well the things her hands knew to do, she spoke. “Let’s not get it twisted-- -that’s the blades.”

And yes, you’d think it was fondness cutting into her tone. Muse was as muse did, and Eva was but a muse for the blades and the crimson symphonies they culled. She was picky, sure, but Eva had plenty of love to give no matter the size and shape of the blade. Her arsenal was bigger than most, though she carried only parts of it when she was on the move like this. 

Tongue silent as it laved over the soup she had swallowed, Eva offered him a huff bemused for his hire’s whims, but curiosity brought her gaze over from her food to him, and then eventually to the sack in question. Placing her bowl down in favor of the bag, Eva tugged it over. The moving insides gave birth to a few guesses, and tugging the cord open only revealed the worst of it into reality.

( In an ideal world, the dead deserved burials. Metaphorically speaking of course, the act didn’t have to be a burial. Burials, cremation-- -less formal than it once was, now just burning the body would do- --and the sort. Not funerals, those were bullshit; there was no point in digging a grave and then taking the time to cry over it. But the dead deserved respect, because if death had no worth, than life had no cost.  Then again, not every dead deserved the respect, and the living weren’t saints and were hypocrites to top it off-- -took one to know one. )

A noise of affirmation dislodging from her throat, she peered in as if to wander her gaze over the extent of the request-- -and then straightened to rope the cord back into the sack. “Sentimental.” Eva commented, her expression otherwise regimented with years of practice in seeing dead things that were once dying people. “It’ll get her killed.” The hire, that is. She knew hers would do the same to her someday, but Eva was better at hiding the fact behind her blood-soaked weapons.

Tossing the bag back over to him, Eva caught his gaze and held it as her chin rose up in a nod of question. “You planning on going into the medical supplies business, then?” Light jest shaped on a sharp tongue that never really left the way Eva spilled her words added to the lilt of her following words, though the question was serious enough. Passing along the title, she’d call it. He could do the dirty work if it meant Eva didn’t have to make the trek. HQ was low staffed these days ( most days ), and their reputation was only good at keeping them safe in lulls. Everyone was a killer now, but the medics still needed someone making sure the base was safe from raiders or people looking for trouble. “Deadliest mercenary becomes…dealer. Doesn’t have the same ring to it, but I could use one if you’re thinking on it.”

[mandaloriangf]

I view my career like a rubber-band ball in that every role is a new experience building toward something bigger.

[bookaddictiion]

Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment  (via aegeane)

[apotropos]

To ravage, to slaughter, to usurp under false titles, they call empire; and where they make a desert, they call it peace.

Tacitus. Agricola. I. 30. 

Auferre, trucidare, rapere, falsis nominibus imperium; atque, ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant.

(via xshayarsha)

[empyrhien-blog]

sevrinxoconnell:

It was a real pain in the ass when his clients requested proof of the completion of his contract. Sometimes it wasn’t so bad; a unique bit of information, a piece of jewelry, a finger, or perhaps a piece of tattoo. You know, something compact, pocket-sized… something reasonable. But that wasn’t the case this time around. No– - the overly emotional little bitch, who endlessly whined his ears off about how her man left her for some caravan whore wanted to go the poetic route.

She was lucky she had her weight in medical supplies to trade, not to mention a vintage bottle of Four Roses bourbon that he insisted she include after she revealed how exactly she wanted the kills confirmed.

As so, with a sack slung over his shoulder adding roughly another twelve-pounds to his travels, Sevrin was making his way back for Fervention for his payday when he saw the flickering tell-tale of a fire in the distance. While, unlike most, Sev wasn’t opposed to traveling at night, with the sun dribbling slowly behind the peak of the mountains and another several miles ahead of him, he wouldn’t be opposed to a quick sit-down to give his shoulder a break from the added luggage.

He made his approach with his Walther in hand (just in case his soon-to-be acquaintance was one of those shoot-first-ask-questions-later sort), yet when their voice cut across the desert with their offer, he found that he recognized the voice immediately. Eva Rhie – the blood-drenched, razor-edged Goddess of killing shit in a sewer during a radiation storm.

Sev slipped the gun back into the holster at his hip, and made his way toward the fire as comfortably as if they were old pals. “Shit, can’t say I’m surprised to see that you’re still alive,” he commented behind an asymmetrical grin, dropping the sack from his shoulder. It landed landed against the sad with a soft, almost wet-sounding thunk. “Looking a lot less bloody these days.”

The sands of the Wastes were familiar, and so was the figure that came clearer through it. The former for lack of much else now that the sun had taken to drinking from the earth below it and beating its reprimand onto their backs, the latter because if sewers didn’t make for a shit mood with a finger inching towards trigger happy, fighting off a raid because mother earth was throwing a tantrum again sure did. Eva supposed it was fitting she’d see him out here, better tethered out here to the expanse of nothing-- -couldn’t tame the wild out of what all this death left behind.

( Though she wouldn’t think to call this bare acquaintance ‘wild,’ per se-- -it made his chaos seem unrestrained. She had some feeling it was more insidious than that; trained and relished, perhaps. )

“Blood doesn’t go with tonight’s look.” She responded off-handedly, in lieu of a proper greeting. Her tongue carried easy, words lighting on mouthends turning upwards in clear humor. She found no rouse in said company; Eva wasn’t going to pretend like she held any higher moral ground here, hitman’s business or not. They skinned enough lives in their own ways, but tagged on different purposes and pretended like that made it all that different. ( Of course it didn’t because blood was blood, but those lies kept them going long enough to pretend like there was more to this world than miles on miles of dirt and a population that had a bone to pick with everything that breathed and moved. )

Leaning over to pull enough of the soup into another makeshift bowl, she offered it his way in honor of deals made and the likes. It wasn’t a full course meal a la HQ crew nights, but it was sustenance that would keep her stomach from yapping so it would do just fine.

The lilt that sang of the bemused not dropping from her tongue, she continued. “Got something you’re gonna trade me for this shit soup in the bag?”

[tagsandthrows]

[whatthechung]

[rinmaidtsuoka]

[bunlly]

Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.

Kait Rokowski (via lazypacific )

[brooklynninenined]