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averylia May 2020
perhaps this is how a heart unravels;
          like a pearl embedded within a ball of string
while you slowly unravel each layer
          until the inside of your heart is undone
only to be remade again—
          ***** laundry, they used to call it;
when something you once loved became shameful,
          like the very first time the colour red became a crime
no longer a colour of love and passion
          but a reminder of the way roses can bite
and how from then on every memory and moment was
          clouded by that anger, that desire
to remake something completely-
          yet it’s all reminiscent of the time
I faced everything, peeled pushed dug everything up
          all the ugly roots the capillaries
until my heart was revealed, like a scarred jewel
          waiting to be understood;
an old woman once told me that when
          bad things occur it means that something
brilliant will soon accompany it;
          that just like that, the moon can unwind itself
until it shows both the dark and
          the light at once—
for just like the heart
           it’s remade itself time
after time
           after time.
averylia May 2020
I’ve lived in a thousand lives,
seen a thousand faces;
I’ve walked the shoes of fairies,
carried adrift by silk strewn laces.

I’ve kissed a thousand suns,
beguiled a thousand moons;
I’ve danced on the arms of Queens,
crown jewels shimmering in the afternoon.

I’ve seen a thousand worlds,
yet yearn for a thousand more;
for it is these stories that bind my soul
to the living world beneath my door.
(On the power of reading/watching stories)
averylia Dec 2020
You who stirred the words into my soul,
Brought them to life, animated them
With allegory and wit.
As if the Nine Muses had sung to my ear,
And Calliope herself had donned me
With the poems she'd once writ.

Or Sappho of ******, among secretive violets,
Absorbed by the lyre, she pens to revive it;
Not the song, or the tune,
But the calm way the song moved
The violets across the field-
This inspiration, she could wield.

Don't you see now, how it's not poetry the poet will choose?
For every poem the poet pens one shall require an equal Muse.
Calliope is one of the eight Greek muses. She is the muse of epic poetry.
averylia May 2020
Spell your name,

I want to see each letter,

as they brush against the paper

a spell cast in ink,

you’ve enchanted me so

that I savour even that magic.
Part of my "magic" series.
averylia Dec 2020
Once again
I am captured
Struck by the rose,
enraptured by the thorn.

I see your reflection in
ivory paper,
and the crown of your sweet head
like a blanket of fallen snow.

Does it matter, I wonder,
if you were truly alive or truly living?
For in these pages I can see your image
as truly as if it were a branding in my head.

The gentle ***** of your shoulders,
the dark and twisted curls-
Now see, you begin to see her too-
the small & delicate hands,
with crooked ring fingers,
the intuitive eyes.

And perhaps if I call Aphrodite,
down from the sea foam
and have her fair lips kiss these words,
I can have you materialize in my breath
and echo into my arms,
a statue no more.

Or perhaps I will lie a fool
my thumbs and forefingers obscured by ink
and your skin that of clay
detached and resolute.
Inspired by the tale of Galatea and Pygmalion, in which Pygmalion falls in love with the statue he's created; or the artist with his creation. I spun the tale so that it's the writer falling in love with the inevitably written
averylia May 2020
Do not linger in the shadows
of sakura trees,

you’ll grow drunk on their promises
                                          of love,
her sickly sap, seeps through souls,
stanching your heart silently,
veins from which she can drink from,
taste the longing that you will bring,
                                   in the spring,
                                   in the spring,
the sakura hungers for loneliness;
longing to learn your desires,
leaving you coughing up lonely petals,
solemn kisses made in her long shadows.
Last spring, I was sexually assaulted at 16. One of times having been after seeing the cherry blossoms. Now, I don't associate them with love, but false desire.
averylia May 2020
Oh, Ophelia,
sweet cherub
face, bathed
in moonlight,
doe eyes filled
                with woe:

You are a figure
of my affliction,
falling softly at
midnight, a
delicate dis-
position, fragile
                as soft snow,

a garden you
invite me to,
opulent trees of
treason, you
are the siren’s
call at dusk,
pulling me away
from the

                garden
                of
                eden.
averylia May 2020
Like a tree, I must stand alone,
to free my branches, to free my soul,
while the wildgrass withers
here and near, the lonely tree
stands tall alone.
I wrote this after studying introversion in my room. Perhaps there is a certain strength in being the silent one, the one with the least but strongest words. In the same way, those who are extroverted may stretch themselves too far and become overwhelmed by the senses/expectations.
averylia May 2020
We are, we are but a sum of our parts—

a brain, a soul, a body, a heart:

when one is lost, the system collapses,

do not dare to take a human apart.
averylia May 2020
I: WITCHLIGHT


That vividness—
     witch light in pearl eyes;
     I long to raise my ear to you
     for you gleam like a shell,
     your hollowness holding
     a delicate song, billowing
     out like a spell of sand.

— The End —