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Mar 2020 · 89
Anna Mar 2020
the absent embrace of your lips

holds a vast expanse of emptiness

any moment I believe

your tongue might summon me,

your slave, your willing servant

to the precipice of your peach glossed

cupid's bow

hot breath and highlight infused sweat

tittered in between our intimate moments

our cheeks rubbed against one another

our mouths overwhelmed, dripped in lustful saturation

your taste had always been pomegranate

your neck, salty as wild rice

I recall your gasps

excited by my mouth of bitter cocoa

my skin loud, mimicking our Kush clouds

its sad to believe we have lingered

silently, mere inches between our navels

our hands tracing each other's sorrow

each finger pricked against a broken heart

I'd like to believe our end was softer

gentle like your hips

the continual pressing of forgiveness

against us, between us, within us

whispered from your long lost lover

pressed against your glistening lip
old lovers still hold feelings.
Mar 2020 · 283
Love has a song.
Anna Mar 2020
ah, love. singing.

weaving through peace lilies

a single swan's head

craning, not yet in bloom

I'm pruning and


roll your hands over


soft and sad

the TV mummers

low, dancing along with

laughs emanating from

soft cotton yarn, balled

up and around our raven fawn

warm slats of sun

wander in from the window

and the music

and the shears

and the mummers

and giggling peels

create the song

love intends to hear.
a nice afternoon with my husband and daughter.
Feb 2020 · 108
Anna Feb 2020
ravenous fingers are too soon satiated

and settle into slumber under the bones of the oak

they used to scurry like spiders

weaving beautiful silk webs under her skirt

she is now hollowed, without marrow, like the drinking gourd

too eagerly poured, molding sharp clay

into fertile soil

won't be long before she shatters

too worn and apathetic to be a lover

and who will shoulder blame?

the scornful sun?

the weight of water?

or the absent touch of her

Feb 2020 · 85
Writing Room.
Anna Feb 2020
willow trees lightly touch against the outer panes

perhaps in angst of seeing scattered leaves

within the study.

the room is muddy, hosting burnt auburn couches

and rust settees,

chestnut book casings, and warm amber


the forest inside is a colorful fall, but the book spines stay frozen

unlike the oaks ******* outside

shrubs within find home in terracotta

outside the vines dip their toes in soil

and the master pens and pines inside the spines of

ancient trees, while the willows outside

stand watching, tapping their fingers

asking to grow inside.
a simple writing prompt, asking us to describe our ideal writing room.
Feb 2020 · 181
Ash Tray.
Anna Feb 2020
I finally found you again

its been years but

I could never forget your

barley laced breath,

sneaking cigarettes

burning everything

but yourself

your burial only hid

the covers of your flesh

who knew that you would


into someone I had never met

dipping himself in liquor

his angered tremble

is reminiscent of yours

how foolish was I to believe

you would ever let me out the broken

door of my existence

you must have missed this

you must have wished this

curse upon me!

I suppose its expected when a tomb

remains occupied with life

if only you would die

if only you would drown yourself

lifeless in liquor

if only you would bury me too

and leave me well enough behind.
It's been 5 years since I have spoken to my alcoholic/pill addicted dad, but sometimes I see him peering from behind the eyes of my lover.
Dec 2019 · 143
Death in the Forest.
Anna Dec 2019
Trees are allowed to grieve.

crumpled sorrow falls in vividness

painting the floor

in ruby red blood, rust orange sweat,

decay brown despair.

trees are allowed the luxury of death

reverting back into their core, their roots

escaping the brutal truths winter brings

hardened in the wind

confirmed in the frozen ground they have

rooted in.

festooned in the envious demons they surmounted

trees are allowed to bloom again

triumphant over their darker seasons.

without giving cause

without giving reason.

Perhaps this is the vitality of the forest

the humble and solitary

transformation found in death.
Mar 2019 · 1.2k
Flea Market.
Anna Mar 2019
I’m whirling about
There’s fruit I’ve never seen
And chainsaws
Hanging from the ceiling
Collections of rusted
And nostalgic
Playthings of my
Past memory
The people here
Mimic the eclectic offerings
Every part of the group
Teems with
I feel cherubic laughter
Quiver my lungs again
I head for home
Clutching a book
I acquired
From this impeccable
A wonderful friend of mine invited me to the local flea market, and I couldn’t resist writing about it

— The End —