He's not her hero, he's her silent guardian @waynehopkirk-blog - Tumblr Blog

True, what I've loved has now been lost. Not buried, but scattered to the winds. Though never touched by a hint of frost, For mine is a love that never ends.

#Wayne Hopkirk #Drabble

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The stairways up to la butte Can make the wretched sigh, While windmill wings of the Moulin Shelter you and I.

#Complainte De La Butte #Rufus Wainwright #Moulin Rouge #Shhhhh I'm on a kick

lottie-dolohov

The stars are defiant at your fading grace. No light, at night, deigns to fall upon this face.

Be strong, be lovely, do not wane just yet.

-W

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Charlotte lifted the flowers into her hands, pressing her lips to the blossoms, inhaling deeply.

My beloved boy, Thank you so very much for these flowers To keep me company by the endless hours. Your Charlotte

#gifts #Wayne Hopkirk #submission #cause i like it okay

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#Wayne Hopkirk

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Haunted or haunting, we are all the same. Ghosts dance in our eyes, come alive in our name.

#Wayne Hopkirk #Transylvania

Who shall tell what did befall, Far away in time, when once, Over the lifeless ball, Hung idle stars and suns?

#Wayne Hopkirk #Emerson

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#:O #what is this magic

#Wayne Hopkirk #Future FC #Ayanna Zabini #Nomin

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Charlotte was the Saint. The Martyr. So pure. Always clad in white. Veil covering her hair, her face. Her eyes always downcast, always sad.

She was a supplicant for him, Pleading his case to the gods. The sacred relics she kept close to her heart, Blessed by her lips, Protected him from the evil that grew in the darkness.

Late at night, he lit a candle in her name. One for her, one for his Goddess, his queen. And he cried to the gods for their happiness. But he always knew that little Lottie Was made for such sorrow.

#Wayne Hopkirk #Charlotte Thorley

lottie-dolohov

Charlotte || Wayne

A bit of earth. It was all she had wanted, really, something to call her very own, something that had not been a gift. Certainly, Gaia and Demeter had lifted their tawny cloaks and bent forward to breathe upon a whiskered patch of grass, but Charlotte had found it, cultivated it, turned the soil in her palms. The dirt clung between the elegant digits of her hand, rooting into her fingernails. Certainly her betrothed would see her and would be disgusted, but the man had not taken an interest in her and it was time that she took some time for herself.

With the dewey-eyed kitten at her side, Lottie sat in the Greenhouses underneath one of the long tables, her long skirts bunched at her knees. She ran her dirt-caked fingertips over the tiny saplings arising from her ground. That she could create something visceral to hold in her hands, something to love and nourish, brought the briefest flicker of sunshine to her face.

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It was from the clearest of skies that the droplets fell; the crimson sun bled tears for the fall of mankind, and Wayne wept with it. It was in the courtyard where he fell to his knees, yet he found himself fleeing across the stone bridge, seeking refuse in the forests. But then he glimpsed an angel. No. A martyr. A saint. A slight turn of the head and he smiled, for his falling star had risen once more to the place the gods had suspended her. She was where she belonged for the moment, and he watched her shine.

A sin it seemed to intrude upon her then, but he craved the sound of her voice, her soothing hymns, the prayers she promised to whisper for him. She carried the hope of his future on her shoulders, veiled his dreams around her hair. How could she possibly know? With a sigh, he pressed onward, into the room he walked, into darkness he clamored, until he was at her side.

“Dear saint,” he whispered, lips turned up into a smile. “How well you look this eve.”