Ophelia is outside my house. Painting the very air in cinnamon hues. Swirling past garbed in widow’s weeds. Spiraling off strange currents. There is musk and spice in the air: The tail-end of lusty desires. The very air resonates with a heady tang and bated breath This storm blows. Copyright Tom Tide 2017 … More Dusky Musky Ophelia
I should be burned, dead and buried. God knows, I could have helped them burn. Soap does burn, does it not? I am made of ash and oil. Twas my place to soothe, though. To aid. To cleanse. My current station? To laquer a haunted Thane with fresh layers of guilt, year by year. They … More Thane Of Strife
Prey allow me to make your humble aquaintance. I am a coxcomb. The jester’s livery. The Jupiter of Jollity and Mercury of Mirth. My one function: to beautify and orbit the radiance of King Lear, and dwell in the eternal eclipse of his Deified orbit. Before my trampling, that is. You see, my master … More Foresight
To everybody else, I was thrown at Petruchio out of sheer rage. Naught else. Yet I knew the truth of the matter. As I was hurled through the air I knew it was not rage but lust. I was the seat of her pleasure, and she would not have thrown me away lightly. God be … More Comb thy Noddle Part 1
He was ever Herbologist ere priest, Felt sacred in the living green, Divine! His thirst for cures and antidotes increased, Yet plummeted his faith in scripture line. I was his greatest ever creation, Brewed only once, so deadly was my blood, Made to dispatch those long past salvation, Though toxic, my intentions were all … More Violent Delights
My cursed maker. They bound him within his forge till he finished me, and their goadings finished him. Thrice cursed was his mind, and his body followed. Rather than make any more of their cruel designs he beat his own eyes to pulp with his hammer, and cursing his Gods thrust his clever hands in … More Bane of Cawdor. II
Have you ever felt the true pulse of another? When the heart is driven only by impulse and instinct? Perhaps when pressed close, by happy circumstance or mutual exertion. Has your own heartbeat quickened in response? If not, then stop listening. This is a tale of throbbing and intrigue, not fit for dainty ears. Read … More Bane of Cawdor.I.
I count myself blessed. I may be but a window, but I am frequented. We Tuscan windows are known as ‘the eyes of buildings’. Eyes are oft known as ‘the windows to the soul’. Therefore, I count myself soulful. I am an observer of encounters: both voyeuristic and by mutual consent. A connoseur of many … More Allegedly (an imagining of what the window from ‘Much Ado about Nothing’ would say, given half the chance.
A rotten butt, he called us. The vehicle of salvation for he and his progeny, and we were rotten to him. Warped we may have been, and old, but never rotten. For we work together, my knotted kin and I. Regardless of any stress or strain. We boat parts are old retainers. Whatever the weather. … More Against the grain. I
I have not always been thus. A macabre trophy. In my time I have lived many lives, and witnessed countless secrets. We handkerchiefs are confidantes. Conspirators. Carried in places that are seldom touched by others. Nestled deep in sleeves, or bound tightly to corseted bosoms. Always near the pulsing throb of life. Oh, and I … More If a handkerchief could speak. Part Two.