53 Quotes by H.S. Crow

Tampering with fire will burn you, even in the coldest regions.

No angels or Gods, neither old or new sang for them. Only oblivion kept them company as the coaxing whisper of fatigue lulled a few to ruin.

Raw anguish slithers through my brittle bones as the deathly call rots the air. Who murdered you old friend? The forest has no words to identify the hand, only erratic echo.

Moonless nights haunt me. They evoke my once carefree life when I dreamed without doubt to what my future could be. I yearn for a time when my mother’s tree swayed beneath the dusk like an amber sea, but the past is locked without a key. Never to return—only flee.

Writing is a sacred calling that pulls at the soul. It is the air you breathe. It flows through the veins like a carmine river, and pumps the heart. It is a part of you. Putting a pen between shaky fingers over the unknown vistas of pale opportunity is not for the faint of heart. It is an enduring struggle that takes control of you.

Muscles tore and scarlet poured with each swing the dragon could muster and he roared.

Words have oppressed, and liberated countless. It is a weapon that can be used to inspire and save lives, or discourage and forsake them.

As long as we have children seeking unrealistic dreams, anything is possible.

A violinist fiddled.With strings resined for winter.Summer's light splintered.