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How Vacant is My WorldHow vacant is my world
How shambly and shaken.
Knowing you are somewhere not taken.
With the drum beats of my blood
pounding oceans to my raging seas
I call you from the vastness
of every known eternity.
Beckoning, my hand extends,
through time and place and ice cold space,
the lattice of my love
bends and folds and further comprehends
the meaning of true mastery; the smile of my embrace.
Holding time and feeling temptation
I am awash in all consuming expectation.
You are vision, ghost and agent of design.
Will you let me linger
to feel your tumescence time?
The PackMacgyver fanfic
The wolf pack was tracking through its normal territory. MacGyver pulled his parka hood on more snugly and adjusted his backpack; the sun was going down and it was going to be a mite uncomfortable if you didn't have a fur coat on. His assignment was observation, gathering information for a research team member who had broken an arm. He busied himself putting up a temporary shelter quite a ways from the pack and out of the bitter cold. Mac was only needed this one evening. Once a replacement person was flown in, he'd be on his way.
MacGyver had been with this pack repeatedly throughout its inception. Had even bottle-fed the alpha male when he was just a little whisker; 01771 was what he'd been tagged. Whiskey was what Mac called him because of his amber brown coloring. Whiskey was wearing a transmitter collar.
This was going to be an easy one, Mac thought to himself. He had just removed his backpack when he was startled by a violent commotion coming from the wolves. Whis
Sometime Ago I Fellsome time ago I fell,
not from the sky as some might require
not from grace that others would conspire
love claimed me and named me
it brought me and sold me
and I was filled with longing and released
some time ago I fell,
the trembling of my heart revealed
what could no longer be concealed
that my love for you was true
some time ago I fell
and since, I've known such bliss
for when I fell, you caught me
with your long and luscious kiss
please hold me in that space
that gentle sea beside your face
where lips met lips
and love forgets to seek gravity's grace
WithinThe edge of night weakens, fading.
Cold, the gray chill of morning presents;
rain falls, the steady stain of salt-less tears
memory lingers, a tattered cloak of wasted years.
Disease and disaster calmly wait,
the winds of death condemn a winless war.
Vacant horizons beckon; there is nothing to the rear;
emptiness eats reality and you have everything to fear.
You carry only carnage, the bitter taste of blood
and all your hopes of heaven are not worth one single breath
miracles are rainbows and madness is a sin
who can hope to hold the demons from within?
Line of Fire (X-Files)(A Scully/Doggett story)
It was dark, so dark and cold. He couldn't remember being this desolate, so empty: he felt used up and dead inside. The emptiness clawed away his guts: this nightmare that wouldn't end. God, please make it end!
He loved her. He had to acknowledge that. That wouldn't go away. He had to work this all from that place. Her strength; her goddamn strength; it put all other strengths to shame, to pathetic shame.
A wave of agony swept through him and he couldn't fight the tears that threatened to override his eyes. Through the watery cascade, he blinked away wetness. He let the agony sweep through him and he shuttered with its passing. He couldn't do this anymore. It was just too hard, too impossible. He had to tell her, had to let her know.
Then he could see her eyes staring deeply into his. Calm, focused: unflinching, almost a cold fire, that consumed him, ravaged his senses, tore open his fears and laid waste to his soul. He was transfixed, transformed, alchemized i
Sometime Ago I fell, JohnOne shot
Sherlock didn't know if he'd survive the fall. His plans had been drawn up and implemented in such a short amount of time; there was always the possibility of unforeseen errors. He had to trust to his homeless network to distract John and to back up the most relevant parts of his plot. He had to trust Molly to failsafe his deception; so much depended on trusting so many.
He remembered his tears upon the roof. Telling John he was a fraud, begging him to believe the lie, asking him to not only believe, but to spread the lie. Those tears had been real. In his life he had manipulated all those around him easily with little or no effort. Sherlock had ever been the consummate actor. His performances Golden Globe material, but those tears had come from his newly discovered heart. Those tears had seared that heart, because he knew inside that John would never accept his words; never believe the unbelievable.
Now the hard work began. The deception had to b
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