The morning after is strangely calm.
"Morning is blissful because it has
no memories."
says the sylph, rifling through her satchel.
"It only thinks about the
future, what it wants to do,
where it wants to go.
"Then the evening comes,
who remembers
the weight of
the world.
Sometimes it hides behind clouds and
cries."
"And of the night?"
"The night, knowing the sorrows of her siblings,
casts a veil over
everyone else.
She gathers all the suffering she can and swallows it
whole."
"Does it hurt?"
"Sometimes."
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 1:52 AM UTC
I wish to kiss the mountain with my feet
And burrow tight within its frozen maw
To craft a trail amidst an angry sleet
To puncture frozen shell with metal claw
I wish to hold the ocean in my reach
And drift amongst a swirl of yellow tangs
To float and flip and light a sunken beach
To dart away from rows of gnashing fangs
O how I wish to find my world of light
And sleep within the cradle that I've missed
To shed this sack of flesh and free my blight
To feel her soothing hold and once be kissed
Encased in flame, my body will rescind
Ascending to my mother in the wind
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
a blot of ink spilled
across a sheet of paper like
leaves in a book
perched on a wooden
shelf threatening to teeter
over and spill on creaking
floorboards in a wooden
house sinking deeper and
deeper into the depths of
blotted synapse and
leafless trees spreading
roots into concrete and tearing
out and through these concrete veins
and through these concrete lungs of mine
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC