Theme

Display Mature Content

Suppress AI Content

literature

The Veiled Madonna

Deviation Actions

WriterOfStuff

Published: Mar 12, 2016

453 Views

Literature Text

You wear a crown of thorns upon your head
Blood droplets like tears stain
A gown as white as snow
As you cry out for deliverance
From the ashes gathered at your feet.

Once shamed; twice fooled by beauty.
I touched your crimson hands
Thinking they contained salvation
Oh, Madonna, intercede for those
You have led astray.

Twice taken in by madness
I lost myself inside your holy writ
Lain prostrate at your altar thinking
That I might be a worthy sacrifice
Your one true acolyte

But I am not your only martyr.
And your porcelain cracked revealing
Obsidian beneath your robes
A fiction in your prayers
And lies within your truths

And as the veil dropped
You stood in all your nakedness
Decay your garments beneath your sweet seductions
I had once savored like communion
Now with a bitter taste

I cannot undo your witchcraft
Love turned to hate and life to death
You laid me to rest to burn
Inside a hell of your design
Eternal damnation my reward for you

And still, you boast of purity
Calling more into your temple with pious cries
And the masses believe your spectacle
While trampling on my grave
More dust to line your pilgrim path.

You will be the saint, and I the sinner
But your deity will leave you bare
On the day fate turns us into equals
You no longer the goddess
And I no longer the only devil.

More by WriterOfStuff

Literature

The Shadow Fox Chronicles - Chapter Three

Andy Lane Of the things my mother had taught me before I left for college, her list of hangover remedies had proven to be the most useful. As I trudged from my room into the kitchen, the heel of one hand pressed into my forehead, I could justify the first two beers. I could even make an allowance for the third, because it was rude to join someone for drinks and not have one. It was the next two that had me questioning my judgment, internal accusations bordering on charges of masochism. The pounding of my head offset whatever gratitude I might have had for the rest of the night’s events, and any further assessment of my mental state wou

Recommended Literature

Literature

To Dream of Falling

I dream of falling. It's not a dream common to angels. After all, we have a pair of wings--or two or three--and we can use them. We float upon the air, dance among the stars, shape the clouds with our breath, and so on. All that lovely wordplay to describe an indescribable. A joy, a graceless power. Flight. Humans dream of it often, I am told. It makes sense. They have no wings save for what they create with their hands. Airplanes, hang gliders, helicopters. Kites. They are obsessed with the sky, more so than the angels themselves, many of whom will fly three thousand miles rather than walk across the street. And yet I dream of f

Literature

Wild Hunt :: Longma

Like any good story, this one does not begin where it began. It does, however, begin where it ends—at a funeral. The village was not particularly big. Rather, it was frightfully small, and just as frightfully remote. That said, it was little surprise that every denizen turned out for something so important as the funeral of a good man. —and it truly was each and every one: every man, woman, and child; every son, brother, and father; every maiden, mother, and crone. It was said even the dogs followed at the heels of their masters, even the songbirds gathered in the trees, and the livestock unable to free themselves from their pens

Literature

Footnote To The Apocalypse

The day after the apocalypse, I read. I find a bookshop, one of the only buildings that hasn't been destroyed by the blast. The door is locked, but the front window has a hole in it , and my shirt-wrapped fingers manage to break away enough of the splinters to create some sort of entrance. For the first time in my life, I am thankful for being small. My hands are bleeding when I get inside. My shoulder is too - there's a sliver of glass buried in it too deep to dig out - and the gashes on my chest have opened up again, but there isn't much I can do about those. I don't want to bleed on the books, that's all. I don't have any bandages, so

Suggested Collections

Generally Awesome Prose

Literature

Trust Game

"All right, let's go swing," Nanna said. We'd been sitting at the park near my little sister Cindy's apartment, opening presents for her twenty-second birthday. "Oh my God, I wasn't actually serious about that!" I laughed, though I felt a wistful pang when I thought about those swings, which were rigged so high that they probably violated safety code somehow. I'd been in a wheelchair for four months following a rail platform accident, and although I was well on my way to recovering, attempting to swing, especially on that swingset, probably wouldn't have been the safest bet. "You a chicken?" she teased, smiling. "No, just don't want to bre

Literature

Taken in Turns

Green notches recessed into the dial's black face. No buttons or screens disrupted the control panel. One dial – the word 'Off' stood upward and green notches that escorted numbers peeled away down the circumference – just one dial and an instructional box, which proclaimed, 'Turn counter-clockwise.' Tith looked at Mel, his high brow questioned the inert device that consumed half the closet. Mel crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his tricep thoughtfully. It was never easy, he sighed, to understand the machine. Explanation took all of fifteen seconds, but understanding required time and focused thought. Mel cleared h

Literature

The Month of October

Hugh Everett's ashes are in the dumpster behind the restaurant I work at. I know because they start moving on Monday. By Tuesday, there is a writhing charred leg and parts of his open torso. Wednesday, he speaks to me for the first time. "What year is it?" "I think you might implode if you knew." "Makes sense. Do you smoke, doll?" I light a cigarette for him, having pulled it with quivering fingers from my apron, and put it in his mouth. He leans up against a garbage bag leaking shake mix and puffs, exhaling clouds. "This is weak. Lady cigarettes." He rips off the filter with his teeth. He only has three fingers on his left hand and hi

Poetry

MysticSparkleWings on DeviantArthttp://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/https://www.deviantart.com/mysticsparklewings/art/Day-1-of-365-613953421MysticSparkleWings

Literature

most of us go quietly

with birth we are 'opened' - death we are 'shut' we cooperate - generally live 'flowingly' - but some exist to be fondly recalled - we suppose others are purposely popular - in nice clothes unless one invents 'the better mousetrap' receives The Nobel or whatever nice crap is amazingly famous - or infamous-ly known our one parting shot will be on our gravestone beneath it - we'll molder away for a while after keeping this mindful thru-out our last mile: the cosmic and random had brought us thus far we were never the focus - truly - never the star llp - dA - mar2022

Literature

poetry: spring of dreams

unfettered lies liaisons of beings fear of the truth my crystal tears maiden in white tufts of dandelions no fury, no agony close your eyes symphony of purity kaleidoscope of peace breeze embalming the body sweet, sweet dreams when I die play this song and think of me as I dance at the spring of dreams

Literature faves

Literature

Obsession

It takes 14 minutes and twelve seconds to walk to your home from mine every day. Your mother never fails to smile at me when she opens the door. I never fail to notice that it doesn't reach her eyes anymore. You leave your door open an exact two point three centimeters. I don't think you do it on purpose. There is something wrong with the wood that has left it that way. I pause one foot outside the door and listen to you cough, trying to determine how sick you feel today. I hate that every time I think you are particularly ill, I am always right. Six months, seventeen days and fourteen hours. That is how long its been since the d

Literature

Your Poetry Sucks

Yes, roses are red And violets are blue But you have to understand Who said they had to, Its about imagination Emotion and orignality Not the reiteration Of dead men's practicality These words, They are your sentence To a world that has to listen As you create the difference Whether it be With angst poem against love Or how you set your heart free To fly like a dove, For these words Whether or not they be true Their beauty and ideals Will be used to define you, So yes, Hope ,in fact, has feathers And like a caged bird it sings But these words will only be tethers That strip you of your wings, Those are their words Meant for their time And me

Literature

Bullied On Our Friendly Website DA

There was once two authors on a website that wanted to let their opinion out. But a famous author set to put them out. She took the flame of these little author’s hearts making them burn from blue to red. And here’s what she said, “Your little fire shall be extinguished because I want you to get the Fuck Out!” The tiny authors wept and cried. Wondering was it because they picked a side. Maybe if they had gone with the flow of everyone else they wouldn't have suffered being a different self? The small male author thought it was too much to handle and left. But the dainty female author stayed behind. However, The ligh

More by WriterOfStuff

WriterOfStuff on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/writerofstuff/art/FDTS-Issue-1-Pg-4-20343766WriterOfStuff

heartbreak poetry romance

It's been a while since I've posted anything up here, so I thought I'd share this. Wrote it a while back for the benefit of one of my characters, but it's a few sentiments I can echo myself.