I am longing manifesting itself through ink-splotted pages,
right when the evening sun hits the crown the distant oaks are facing; reigning the hidden realms of forests fading. Autumn fell right through the plaster cast my heart had build through you, waiting, pending, just for another trace of touch to cave in. You would know. As I am speaking winter had long accumulated snow,  not knowing if its featherlight swift should strife your skin or march right in with blizzards where only spring light would keep out the cold. Sometimes the paper fills itself with words I barely manage to rest upon, strong; strokes of blind passion passing on, onto the next, onto the next one. I sigh deeply, I blink in the distance, forlorn. You see, life had me once in its reverie, pale blue dot, green moss moth, things with no sense, things I touch through this rose-colored lense. You wouldn't know. Maybe you do but mostly you don't.

© fey (15/11/24)

Wondrous porcelain above,
the pines have felt your touch beyond
and in the woods we sing –
of ephemeral, heavy spring.

© fey (09/11/24)

I'm kind of glad
that the world is dying today.
I've longed to beseech the ruins lost,
under the abyss ink of my gentle fingerprints, as I
dance among the sage green moss
and meadows shine, the dew drops glint.
I am of doom, I am of loss.
I'd love to see the world forsaken.
Only now, only today has the universe marked me as its prey
and I bent towards the ending day.

© fey (12/11/24)

A heavy stillness drapes the morning,
as if the world exhaled and forgot to breathe back in
the lifted veil.

Fog's gathering her memories, thick and unhurried,
softening edges, obscuring distance,
turning familiar streets into corridors of gray; silencened »memento mori«'s.

Trees rise as ancient monoliths,
their branches reaching, half-dissolved,
shadowlike, shape-shifting forms,
echoes of themselves in muted twilight –
soft and broken, changing ties.

© fey (09/11/24)

Sleeping beneath the shell of my once beloved;
enduring cold, letting the depths of winter unfold.
For spring to come, where I shall plant thy seeds anew,
because I loved to caress the withered petals too.

© fey (03/11/24)

I may not love you to the moon and back
but
I still cherish the bulky craters you have left
on
the surface of my withered heartstrings,
oh the wondrous perils of heartache.

© fey (18/10/24)

You are
Tender twilight dangling below
Chiaroscuro paintings of snow.
And when those meadow eyes of yours glow green
And pale the glistening emeralds beneath
Tender necks of aristocrats,
My love enlightens the shadowed sea
For you and only you to be.

© fey (18/09/24)