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azurePond
19 6,922 M Moving Along 5
The name is Pond, Azure Pond. I make lame jokes. Calm on the surface, but with some ripples underneath. Watch out for the occasional duck!
PathStep 103 Compassion hearts1,948 Forum posts893 Forum upvotes1,753 Current upvotes1,753 Age GroupAdult Last activeMarch, 2025 Member sinceOctober 3, 2024
Bio







"We are sun and moon, dear friend; we are sea and land. It is not our purpose to become each other; it is to recognize each other, to learn to see the other and honour him for what he is." (Narcissus and Goldmund)














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Taxidermy
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 12 hours ago
...See more This is a work of fiction. TW: psychological abuse . . . The tablecloth bleached to bone, her hands a pendulum of salt and pepper. Outside dusk stitches the sky to the horizon— First, you make the incision, she says, lifting a spoon, tracing its curve like a scalpel. Clean. Unhurried. The soup steams between us, a broth of parsnip and something darker. Her voice, a museum placard: My great-grandfather’s hobby was taxidermy— to unpeel life without bruising the skin, stuff absence back into the shape of motion. Her knife finds the butter. Splits it. Gently. A muted conquest in an era of brutal ones. In his time, every beast had its place— on a plaque, behind glass, never alive. She speaks in labeled boxes: Rattlesnake. Sparrow. Wren. Every ‘r’ sewed back to its lifeless body. Formaldehyde and patience. You’d be surprised what stays soft if handled with cold intent. A pause. Her eyes glide over my wrists, my throat— You’d look good like that, she offers, blade hovering mid-air, a silver thread in the amber light Obsidian eyes glass-bright. Pose permanent. Her smile, a needle’s edge Have you ever thought about it? The clock swallows its ticks. My napkin crumples to a fist. Speak of what you saw, she murmurs softly, sawing her steak into perfect, red cubes, and you’ll join his collection. Her fork tines gleam. Somewhere, a moth taps at the window begging to be let in, or out.
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The Old Hoodie
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 Friday
...See more TW : Grief,  Drowning, Death . . . People die, he said. You’ll outgrow this. His voice, a lock clicking shut. First love’s a fever. Sweat it out. As if my heart had a headache, as if grief could be solved with analgesics. I didn’t tell him how, weeks prior, You talked to me about the creek— water striders skating on tension, their shadows braille on the stones. “I will take you there one day," you said. But you never did. “Nothing drowns there.” you said And then you did. Dad still quotes his prophecy like scripture, while your name curdles in my chest— a milk tooth I won’t spit out. Some nights, I press my ear to the floor, half-expecting the house’s bones to hum the hymn your mother sang that day, low in the grave he lay. My sister says I’ve got a good jawline for veils— But I keep your old hoodie balled in the back of my wardrobe, sleeves still holding the shape of your wrists— two parentheses insisting to be filled. Today, I placed that old hoodie in a donation box. The sleeves, slack now, no longer taut with the grammar of your arms. Let it become a relic for someone else— to unravel into their own trailing thoughts in parentheses. I didn’t linger, though the fabric still hummed with the half-life of your rain Even now, the box gapes like a mouth waiting to whisper your name Somewhere, your voice still laughs— Water is the best place to be—
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The Cathedral of Pause
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 Wednesday
...See more It begins without ceremony— no shatter, no crack in the foundation just the quiet erosion of motion. Most days, the scaffolds hold the blueprints unfurl and I build without question But then come the days when the mortar will not set, when the tools slip from my hands, when the halls of effort stand empty, and dust gathers like second thoughts That is when I build cathedrals out of tomorrow, carve grand archways of “not yet,” lay bricks of “just one more minute,” until the whole structure hums with delay The blueprints, as always, are flawless— a palace where urgency is outlawed, where staircases spiral endlessly upwards, leading only to themselves Outside, the bell towers crack, the sundials splinter at their bases, deadlines hammer at the doors, but I am busy— letting the sun stain the glass, waiting for the wind to tell me when to stop or start. Somewhere, my future self paces, tapping their foot in a room I have abandoned They hold the things I was meant to do, turning them over like unfinished layouts But here, in my cathedral of pause, I press my ear to the silence, listening for a moment that has not yet decided to arrive.
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The Pawn Promotion
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 March 1st
...See more I have nothing to offer— No coin for the kingdom, Though my name is etched in gold In the ledgers of wars I never chose All I have is this frayed thread of loyalty— A tether worn thin by the weight of your wars I stumble like a ghost through bloodied fields, A shadow stitched from the sinew of dead horses And the splintered bones of those who once called me family My veins run with gunpowder and rust, My skin a map of scars leading nowhere The blade in my hand is a crooked fang, Forged in the fires of a blacksmith’s despair, Its edge dulled by the weight of crowns I cannot bear It trembles in my grip— Not from fear, But from the memory of every throat it failed to slit. I crawl across the board, A pawn with no motherland to protect, No worthy king to serve The squares are slick with the oil of forgotten machines, The air thick with the stench of rotting banners This is not a game of strategy But of survival— A slow, grinding descent into the maw of a beast That has already swallowed the sun Yet still, you are all I have, And yet, you are a hollow thing— A crown of thorns wrapped in a flag I no longer recognize But I am nothing without a cause. So I turn the knife upon myself— Not for honor, not for redemption, But because the only victory left Is the one you cannot take from me The blade sinks deep, A pawn's final act of defiance. And as the blood pools beneath me, I see the board for what it truly is— A graveyard of broken pieces, Where even kings like you are buried nameless.
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If I Had Never Been Born
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 2 days ago
...See more (Content warning: Intense themes as suggested by the title) . . . If I had never been born– The coffee pot would still hum, The dishes would stack in quiet rows, People would smile, still fight, Still lost in their own rhythms. Perhaps their laughter would ring truer, Their nights lighter, Without the burden of my presence. They’d have been better off, In ways they’ll never say. I’d be an email in the spam folder, A request that never reached the desk, Forever absent, A speck of dust on a moth-eaten book, A step you skipped in a hurry Unnoticed. Maybe it would be better, Maybe not. But the universe spins regardless, In its reckless, unfeeling dance, Leaving me here, Still breathing, Wondering if the world would have been kinder If I had never been born, Or if it would have simply carried on, Like a plot in a book With worn-out tropes. And yet, here I am, A footnote in this infinite story, Waiting…
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The Red Maker
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 February 26th
...See more On the banks where the earth had veins, a girl molded clay, wet and stubborn, learning from fingers that never shook. But she did not have her father’s steady hands, the ones that could smooth cracks into craft. The village called her hands unclean, "Too soft for creation, too weak for gods." The kiln mocked her too— spitting ash in defiance, mocking every effort. "Clay remembers failure," they whispered in alleys thick with smoke. "It doesn’t forget poor hands." She pressed on, kneading resolve in the body of her figures. Shapes emerged — hollow-eyed saints, fractured dancers, but none could hold their heads high. One day, betrayal fell into her palm: a slip of iron, sharp and gleaming, left crimson blossoms trailing down her wrist. The blood met clay like a promise— warmth soaking into cold resistance. She felt it tremble between her fingers, shaping a new hue neither god nor critic had ever seen. The figures glowed red under fire, like hearts frozen mid-throb. People came in droves, faces filled with wonder. "Look at this grief, this ache suspended in mud." "She molds sorrow like joy." "I see my mother in this figure’s curve." Coins clattered at her feet, enough to drown her doubts. But when night came, shadows clawed back into her spine. The echoes returned: "The clay you used was wrong." "This won't last." "Who taught you this madness?" In the quiet kiln's corner, one unfinished figure stood still — gray and unbloodied, waiting. She touched its coarse cheek, her fingers trembling like the first day. "Do you believe them?" the clay whispered. "Maybe." Her voice cracked like brittle earth. "Then mix me with doubt," it said. "Shape me with it, too." Her past never left; it lingered in every groove she carved, but her blood was in the clay now — unerasable, undeniable. And when the village slept, she sculpted from memory all night, not to prove them wrong, but because her veins knew no other art.
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Hate is Poisonous as well as Venomous
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 February 22nd
...See more I despise her name crawling through my teeth like maggots in a corpse I despise how she coils around my ribs, cracking them open like a rotten fruit Speaking of her feels like vomiting tar, yet she lingers, a parasite gnawing at my tongue What use is this strength, this power, If I cannot carve her talons from my throat? Her fingers are splinters of bone, digging, festering— Every gasp I take is a symphony of suffering composed by her soft hands. I lock the doors, barricade my mind, Yet she slithers through the cracks, her violence is sand beneath my skin. It is my fault. My thoughts. My face who  betrays me— Why sorrow? Why rage? Stretch your lips wide, bare your teeth— Smile. Smile. Smile.  For the banquet of decay laid before you. She places shards on my tongue and commands, “Chew.” I obey. The glass grinds, slicing through gums and throat, Each swallow a wound, each breath laced with agony. Blood pools in my mouth, seeping through the cracks in my smile— Dripping, staining, painting my lips in ruin. And the world gasps, Pointing their unworthy fingers at me– “She’s a demon,” they cry, “feeding on the blood of the innocent!” But demons are made, not born. And he is not aware. I will never ever forgive him for putting me through this trial. Does his blindness make him innocent– When he does not see the bruises blooming like red spider lilies on my skin? When he does not hear the salt carving ocean trenches into my cheeks? She is a lady, a saint in silk. I am her trembling wretch— The one unworthy of mercy, The one who carved their own ruin. I despise her. I despise his indifference. But above all, I despise myself for being an accomplice.
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Coffee with The Devil
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 February 14th
...See more I was digging through my mother’s basement— A graveyard thick with things long spent, Where cardboard coffins softly sighed, With secrets time had left to hide. Perhaps an old yearbook I’d see, A lost sock or the lost dignity. Instead, from fog both thick and gray, He stepped as if he owned the way. The darkness unmoored, a whisper of dread, Unease coiling where he tread His entrance like a trick so grand— Yet left without a clapping hand. “Who are you?” I asked, quite plain, My voice as calm as preachers feign. “Who am I? I am the evil incarnate. The ultimate—” “Capitalism?” I cut in fast. He choked on words not meant to last. The fog around his throat held tight, Like indecision wrapped in night. His glare burned, sulfuric, low, A flicker of hellfire, banked below. “What? No. I am the devil.” Two thoughts took root, grew wild and untamed: One, my mother and the devil were not the same. Two, reading Latin late at night Invites what shouldn’t see the light. Climbing up the stairs, I did not stall, I didn't look back as I entered the hall. Coffee now was my aid, A shield from all this headache. He followed, clinging, slight and thin, Like static sparks upon my skin, Like breath that lingered, cloying, near, Something ancient, sharp, and clear. So, I poured him a cup as well. “This is darker than souls in ***,” Grimacing like he'd bitten regret. “And the aftertaste is bitter” he said “Like your deals,” I finished. He did not laugh—devils don’t, At least, from all the books I’ve known. His smile was thin, a blade refined, Patience fraying, hunger entwined. From the corner of my eye, a flick of orange, A tail swishing with practiced scorn The ginger cat, lounging proud, Eyes slitted, disdain unbowed The devil hissed; the cat did too, Back arched, a growl that cut straight through “So hostile,” he muttered, stepping wide, Avoiding claws that sought his hide “Is that a female ginger cat?” A rare tone in his voice—intrigued I stroked her head, a careful sweep, “ Yes, I’m babysitting her for a friend?” The words trailed up, more question than claim, The devil’s smirk curved deep and slow, “It seems you care about the cat.” She was content, nestled in my lap, Purring a hymn to herself. “Though, you seem more irritable than her,” he grumbled. “ Unscheduled guests tend to bring out my best.” His eye did twitch, his marble facade cracked, The mask poised to attack “But I’m no ordinary guest. I grant wishes.” “In exchange for souls, right?” I smirked, My grin as sharp as shattered faith. He nodded, seeking awe or need— But I just scrolled with feline ease. “Faustus wanted Helen of Troy, right?” I turned the screen, a flick of light. “I want Achilles.” He blinked. “You mean Brad Pitt?” “No, the real Achilles.” His disdain was near biblical As if I just shouted “non serviam “ in heaven “You realize he’s not available.” “Fine,” I said, giving the cat a pat. “Then I want Brad Pitt.” He blinked. “He’s older than your father.” “Funny” I laughed. The cat jumped off my lap While the devil tilted his head to follow her path “Alright. Brad Pitt from Troy— At least to tell him the film’s a mess of historical inaccuracies. or maybe the screenwriter.” “What about power, glory, vengeance— The things humans carve their hearts out for?” "For a dealmaker, your catalog sucks. Customise your sales pitch to the stakeholder You’ll have more luck if you tempt me With cute kitten gifs or poetry” “So you are a follower of Bastet?” His fingers tapped against the cup, “ I am not” I replied Was that a joke? I leaned back, stirring slow, “Two questions,” steady as fate’s flow. He sighed. “Go on.” “How do you know English? Did the British colonize *** too?” He nearly spat out drink in shock, “Excuse me?” voice like knife on rock. The light above flickered, dim and bare, A shadow moved where none should dare. “I mean, it would explain a lot.” He rubbed his temples, sighed once more, Like gods who curse what they adore. “No. English is just... convenient.” “Sure. Second question,” I mused aloud, “Why do you ask for souls?” He steepled fingers, straight and tall, A posture made for judgment’s call. “Because they’re priceless.” “Like Bitcoin?” I quipped. “No, not like Bitcoin.” He groaned. “Too volatile?” His gaze sharpened, A ripple beneath a chasm deep. “No. But even if you knew their value, You wouldn’t have the means to mock.” I grinned at that retort, Maybe I will give mine away for free. What’s the worth of a soul today, In a world that trades in vanity? “So, souls are like NFTs— Each one unique and not fungible. And honestly? Not worth the trade.” The devil tilted at my thoughts displayed. “Interesting metaphor,” he was swayed. His nails dragged the table’s wood, Etching runes where coffee stood. I shrugged. “It’s simply true, Besides, power’s nothing new.” His lips did curl, like fate’s own game, “Then what drives people? What motivates them?” I tapped my phone, a simple gleam, “Memes, mostly.” He groaned, a hand against his brow, “I walked into that, didn’t I now?” I sipped my drink, content and free. “So,” he asked, “no wishes for me to grant?” “Dude, I am woman– People already assume someone granted me Everything that I have ever earned” His fingers drummed, the wood near split, An itch, a desire, left to rot I watched the coffee steam, a restless youth. “My wishes are tired, Mr. Devil.” “Tired?” he leaned in, ember-eyed. I exhaled, long and slow, As if dragging muscles from my ribs. “Yeah. Maybe it’s not the wish, Just the weight of expecting the universe to say yes.” “And it never does?” he asked. I swirled my coffee, watching the bubbles fade. “Not in the way that matters.” “So you want nothing?” his eyes flared “Yes, I want nothing, King Lear.” I laughed “Not from you, Not from the stars.” The devil’s lips curled— “You humans are strange creatures.” “That we are.” He rose, fog thickening like lore, Old as myths, and twice as sore. As he faded, words remained, Like embered ash within the rain: “So I grant you nothing in exchange for your soul.” The shadows eased back, the room exhaled. He was gone. Like a song that never reached its last note. I gazed at the cup, its steam also gone, My fingers colder than before, But I was too weary to mourn or rage at the deception “I thought there’d be a Homo Fuge tattoo” Now all that’s left– Is this hollow conclusion.
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