#original comp

[the-wintermelon]

Here’s another original composition that I composed during free time at school!

[yunys-art]

Moodboards for @dracomoros

[thesunghero]

Constellations on Your Skin

Stars They were never important to me, Untill I began seeing them on your skin. They tell me: Stories. Histories. Prophecies, waiting to be fulfilled.

Sparks of light, speckled through an endless black sky, Foam dancing on the waves, Wind in the grass and trees, None of it, as deliberate as the constellations on your skin.

As a catch glimpses, I would have sworn that each spot were painted by God himself. Placed so perfectly, Just to make me breathless.

Expanses of white,

Blemished with scars of your humanity.

Meant to be touched God, let me touch. So far out of my reach, as if they were the stars themselves.

Constellations on your skin. They tell me your stories Histories Prophecies, waiting to be fulfilled… I bitterly puzzle and puzzle, The constellations soon won't be enough Just watching is harder and harder each night. I’d rather hear it from your lips instead Forgive my greed, My endless need,

I’ll just keep star-gazing At those constellations on your skin.

[projectskysong-blog]

One night through.

[peercranedraws]

A little musical preview for what’s to come.

Hold on to your Clocks

[thefireflydiaries]

seashells

  He met her when he was seven years old, a little boy with dark hair and dark eyes, an overly quiet lad. He met her on the beach. She walked along, very slowly, her eyes trained on the ground before her, her long red hair billowing slightly in the breeze. 

  "Do you want to play with me?" he had asked, from where he sat, building a lopsided sand castle. She had looked up and nodded at him. 

  "Yes," she said, "but only for a minute. I have to collect my seashells." She dug round the bucket for a moment and then brought one up -- brilliant blue in the sparking sun. "Do you like it?"

"It's very nice," he had said. "Put it on the top." He gestured to his castle, and she smiled and placed it there. 

Two years later, when they were both nine, they met again. He had grown to be a little reserved, but she had learned to speak when she felt led. Her eyes were now trained on the distant horizon. She spoke to him without turning. "You're the boy on the beach." It was a statement, not a question. He nodded, realized that she wasn't watching him and then said that he was. They didn't play. They didn't speak. He just watched her closely and she he barely looked at him. 

When he was fourteen, he sat on the beach again, as he had first done half his life ago. He was somehow not surprised when she plopped down beside him. 

"Do you watch the stars?" she asked, gesturing at the night sky above them, the pinpricks of light twinkling down at them. He shook his head.

"Watch the stars, boy on the beach," she said, laying back and crossing her arms behind her head.  He followed her lead. A casual passersby would have seen two young teens, looking up at the sky, feeling small but important -- feeling human. Flesh and blood. Beating hearts. 

The little boy was building a sand castle. It was small and lopsided, reminiscent of earlier years. The boy beside him, with the black curly hair, really wasn't a boy at all, but a man. Strands of long red hair kept billowing in his face, but he didn't mind. He hugged his wife, and she in turn, smiled at their baby son. 

(forgive the lack of indentation -- my theme doesn't allow it.)