Encased, as an oil painting,
behind a plane of glass.
Years of exposure dulling the canvas,
no funding to restore the brightness
of the subject's lifeless eyes.
They lay dormant, cloudy,
From a lifetime of accumulative debris.
Transferred between people, buildings, countries;
Memories on display for brief intervals,
Then packaged and returned to storage,
As if they were never your own.
People shift, distorted, beyond the coffin of glass.
Their movements hazy,
The shutter speed slow.
Colours muted,
Sounds muffled,
Melting into each other.
An abstract watercolour, waxing and waning.
Low resolution projections on a dimly lit screen -
A theatre seating but one.
Jun 29, 2022
Jun 29, 2022 at 4:36 PM UTC
On every girls sixteenth birthday
her mother traditionally would drape a necklace crafted from gold around her neck,
and one day - she would do the same.
No one could hear her whisper her wish,
due to the chorus of song escaping their lips.
She'd hug her mother, and dance with her father
until they returned home.
But her parents died too young,
so she draped a necklace crafted from rope
around her own neck.
She couldn't hear the singing,
for she lay six feet underground -
the height at which her father once stood.
But it didn't matter, for her wish had been granted.
She wrapped her own arms around herself,
incased in wood.
She could sleep at last,
blanketed in a layer of earth.
For now, she was home.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
cries from my soul are poems
echoing beauty, tainted with sadness
hollow words, empty being
my body ruining my mind
my mind ruining my body
trapped in a void of self-hate
longing for the key to escape
a wilting flower, kept alive only by the raindrops escaping my eyes
on the cusp of existence.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC