On most of these days,
she spends her time alone.
Dark brown locks draped over her shoulder,
ivory skin and feathered eyelashes,
a scarlet layered skirt topped by a white blouse.
She folds her hands over that crooked skull
resting in her lap,
running her fingertips across the bleached bone,
over and over again
until it is smooth enough to catch the light:
the light from the flickering yellow flame,
basking over her with its dimming glow,
casted in reflection from the mirror behind it.
Further back, she sees darkness.
She stares into those shadows,
the everlasting expanse of the night,
a blanket of starless dust.
At her feet are scattered pearls,
unclasped strands of necklaces,
gemstone earrings,
silver-threaded bracelets.
Discarded, they remain,
catching the last glimmers of light
before fading into the shadows, as well.
Her hands run over that skull, still,
continuously,
as time crawls on, inch by inch.
Like that, absorbed in her own thoughts
and the pensive repetition,
she contemplates.
Her eyes glance down,
tearing away from the darkness,
into that flicker of flame
burning over the candle’s wax.
The flame runs long,
stretching as far as it can.
Pale and yellow, it burns on and on.
The mirror behind it, which once reflected
those abandoned pearls,
now captures the light,
the flame,
the cream-colored wax,
and the shining copper candle-holder.
In the flame,
perhaps she sees herself,
or something else beyond that,
something greater that only few understand.
Regardless, she peers into the flame, and
she contemplates.
She leaves the flame—
the darkness behind her, yet again,
drawing her in with its endlessness,
its eternity.
She sits there,
head twisted to the night,
hands paused in movement,
fingers locked together.
The candle flickers, but it still runs its flame,
and there she remains,
looking out into the silence,
into the darkness, yet still
in the light,
in contemplation.
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 6:05 PM UTC
Nostalgia:
The fragrance of dewdrops
dissolving amongst crisp morning air.
The green and delicate leaf buds
sprouting from once-bare branches.
The humming loud radio
playing from front seats of cars.
The taste of vanilla ice cream
melting under yellow rays of sun.
The rain-streaked glass windows
blending messy autumn shades.
The rustle of fading book pages
turning minute by minute.
The blanket of thick fog
tumbling between red brick houses.
The fallen needles of pine
snapping under light footsteps.
The bright umbrellas and hand-picked flowers,
the lawn mowers buzzing and sprinklers half-off,
the flock of birds and wilting blades of grass,
the ticking golden clock and snow biting cheeks.
Four seasons,
year by year,
and that is
nostalgia.
Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 4:14 PM UTC
The winter's sunlight is cold
while we reach out to grasp the strings of light
threaded through the sky.
We glance at the ashened clouds,
patterned with tree branches strangling each other
to seize the free birds.
Isn't it true that
moonflowers only bloom at night,
for they're afraid of the sun's touch?
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 7:10 PM UTC
There is a heartfelt flower,
genuine and beating.
It yearns and reaches
and curls up inside,
fluttering at every touch,
of those real and affectionate.
There is a heartfelt flower,
genuine and bleeding.
It bleeds and spills
and twists up inside,
weeping drops of red,
all crumpled and stained.
There is a heartfelt flower,
genuine and wilting.
It drains and ebbs
and shrivels up inside,
turning into empty bones,
cast aside and torn apart.
There is a heartfelt flower,
genuine and withered.
If only they could see it
during its full bloom.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC