Charlotte Coldwell

Charlotte Coldwell Jul 20

A small flutter in the morning twilight,
Moving along with the tranquil wind.
A set of gossamer wings float and hover,
A moth's last dance through the mist.

The ebony barked trees loom tall and mighty,
And deep shadows enshroud the bush.
Magic, early light rays glimmer down,
Counting down each the moth's final breaths.

A dewy air of sweet vapour encases,
And clings to the flora of the copse.
The birds sings songs of a suspenseful dawn.
Harmonious is the morn, as the moth lands for rest.

Sing out, you canorous birds, sing out,
Let the gossamer wings dance home on your song.
As the morning mist subsides to a sunny sky,
A life comes to an end, surrender to the dew.

And oh, the moth, she grieves the moon.

- C.c

Charlotte Coldwell Jul 20

Bone and Blossom

At my funeral,
Spare me the tears
And spread my ashes
In the flora.
Do not cry, for the death,
Which has consumed me,
Smile,
For the life that finally,
Surrounds me.

- C.c

Charlotte Coldwell Jul 19

Requiem for an Icarus

It's quiet.

So quiet.

There once was a symphony,
Deep inside my head,
But now, there's nothing.
I forgot how to write,
My words - my everything,
Are just gone without trace.
My hands shake,
Yearning for a quill,
Dreaming to relive the passion,
But my mind fights back,
Consumed by the silence.
Fallen from grace,
What a pitiful poet I've become.
What am I without my words?
Simply an unwritten melody,
Fading out from memory.
Poetry once ran through my veins,
Now it haunts my soul,
An unplayed requiem buried like emotions.
My artistry, has been turned, to tragedy,
Like Icarus,
I've flown,
And I've fallen.

It's quiet.

So,

Quiet.

- C.c

I've suffered through years long periods of writer's block. I used to be able to write poetry feverishly, but now I find it quite difficult. I'm slowly working my way back up to writing like I used to. This is a poem I wrote awhile back about writer's block.

#writersblock

Charlotte Coldwell Jul 19

Chip Away

There are scars on my heart
Surrounded by ribs whittled and carved.
For so very long,
I have suffered at my own hands.
My work, it was gentle enough
To survive —
But torturous enough to tell me,
That I, was still relentlessly,
Alive.

- C.c

Charlotte Coldwell Jul 15

The Romantic and the Chaos

I could get used to the insanity of life.
If it meant that everyday,
I'd get to be lost in my thoughts,
Lost and falling,
Falling fast and for eternity,
And all of the time in-between.

I could get used to the delirium of living,
If it meant that everyday,
I'd get to survive in my poetry,
Surviving; flowing,
Struggling and furiously fighting,
To experience every last word.

Oh,

Oh, how comfortable I could grow,
If it meant that everyday,
I'd get to wander as a romantic,
Wandering and writing.
But oh, how bitterly sad is it?
That every line is just an escape,

From life's cynical realities.

- C.c

Charlotte Coldwell Jul 15

Strange Winds

Never once in my life, have I been okay.
Damnation is threatened, alongside death and decay,
There's a strange storm brewing, it waxes and wanes,
It's how the demons say, they're on their way.

Never once in my life have I been alright.
I'll walk and walk, but my tunnel has no light,
And this strange storm brews, in the dead of night,
The demons, always come, with their cavalry and knights.

Never once in my life have I been at peace.
His thoughts echo, despite being ****** and deceased,
The strange storm is here and it's power, does increase,
The demons are near, and they'll rip me apart, piece by piece.

Never once in my life have I stopped to breathe.
When my lungs do give in, to my family, this soul is bequeathed,
The strange storm has subsided, rendered a childish breeze,
The demons have gone, unnocked bows and swords sheathed.

Never once in my life, have I been okay.
But I will always bare my teeth when they come this way,
And the strange winds can blow, but I won't collapse or sway,
When the demons fight like lions, never will I fall victim
To their fray.

- C.c

I wrote this a few years ago. Rhyming has never been my strong suit, so this one always manages to impress me.

Charlotte Coldwell Jul 15

The Wraith and the Butterfly Dress

She follows me, lingering,
A shadow of a person,
A whisper of a life.
The pale greys of her complexion,
They're haunting, they're horrifying,
And her small stature, is slightly less so.
Constantly by my side, is this tiny ghost,
She's screaming out, crying,
Begging for the innocence,
She was never granted.
She wears a tattered sundress,
Covered in butterflies of blues and greens,
And it falls just below,
Her darkened, scraped knees.
She howls out in pain,
Pleading to feel wonder and joy,
Just, one, more, time.
Always is she grabbing at me,
Yearning for attention,
But I never let
Her wispy grey fingers, grab hold.
Here she is, a wraith, a ghost,
An image of someone, after their death.
The crying child, the wraith in my room,
The little one begging,
To be young again.
I've learned to tune out her cries,
If I were to give her, the attention she craves,
I would have to grow up,
And face the maturity forced upon me.
If I were to give her,
The attention she deserves,
I would have to admit,
That, the little girl,
With the scraped knees, and butterfly dress,
That, that little, sweet girl,
Within me,
Is dead.

- C.c