Thread 29241606

we are the music makers, we are the dreamers of dreams

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Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams

For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth

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Hey there, I'm a 22-year-old girl from the US, a bit adventurous and absolutely love getting wild during late-night chats. I thrive on making guys squirm and can't resist the thrill of pushing them to their limits while having a blast myself. I'm pretty much always in the mood (total playful vibe!), but I can get a little shy in person; that's why I find comfort in spicy conversations online. If you're up for some fun and want to share some steamy moments, hit me up! Just add me on that app that starts with 'S'—my username is E m m i-e l-ar-k-x-x (make sure to remove the spaces and dashes). Can't wait to chat!

For it grows and it grows, as though leaping
Up higher the more one is thinking;
And ever its tunes go on sinking
More poignantly into the ears:
Yea, so blessèd and good seems that fountain,
Reach'd after dry desert and mountain,
You shall fall down at length in your weeping
And bathe your sad face in the tears.

Has summer come without the rose,
Or left the bird behind?

where is fancy bred, it is in the heart or the head?

I am going to write such sad verses tonight

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Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

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Here,
among the market vegetables,
this torpedo
from the ocean
depths,
a missile
that swam,
now
lying in front of me
dead.

Surrounded
by the earth's green froth
—these lettuces,
bunches of carrots—
only you
lived through
the sea's truth, survived
the unknown, the
unfathomable
darkness, the depths
of the sea,
the great
abyss,
le grand abîme,
only you:
varnished
black-pitched
witness
to that deepest night.

Only you:
dark bullet
barreled
from the depths,
carrying
only
your
one wound,
but resurgent,
always renewed,
locked into the current,
fins fletched
like wings
in the torrent,
in the coursing
of
the
underwater
dark,
like a grieving arrow,
sea-javelin, a nerveless
oiled harpoon.

Dead
in front of me,
catafalqued king
of my own ocean;
once
sappy as a sprung fir
in the green turmoil,
once seed
to sea-quake,
tidal wave, now
simply
dead remains;
in the whole market
yours
was the only shape left
with purpose or direction
in this
jumbled ruin
of nature;
you are
a solitary man of war
among these frail vegetables,
your flanks and prow
black
and slippery
as if you were still
a well-oiled ship of the wind,
the only
true
machine
of the sea: unflawed,
undefiled,
navigating now
the waters of death.

[]

The skies seemed true above thee,
The rose true on the tree;
The bird seemed true the summer through,
But all proved false to me.

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I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

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It was beautiful to live
when you lived

You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
And things that we dreamed not before:
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
And a singer who sings no more.

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the b

Yes

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