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Andie 4d
the red glow, gentle, not as vertiginous as the air,
is saved only by its ethereal nature
from being swept up into the churning night.

it is this same nature that condemns it to
suffuse into the blooming blue lambency-
which is now green. and now peach.

even feigning surprise becomes impossible
in this place of transmutation
when examined by the soul

those with physical forms are not spared either
but some are more mutable than others:

peach juice, for example, ripens with glycerol, and relinquishes
its color when it diffuses into wine
which holds its color, no matter the light
and will seep through fabric, when conditions are right
like every other form of nectar here

so be free of it, drop it all on the ground
making little mounds of cloth, little
mole-hills in the dark

which blend less, but
black-and-white houndstooth
perfectly matches a brown
Birkenstock (or bag) in our own
personal heaven.
Andie Feb 14
The air, it shimmers when we’re at this height
mixed with low light makes a good time tonight
my heart is beating, lungs are breathing,
yet in my skull, there’s very little thinking
Until we shift and my eyes refocus,
and then it hits me - only one thing worth notice
That’s you, of course, and what a fitting allegory,
I almost believe that it tells the whole story

Of the one that moves slow, the other: quick
But I wouldn’t change a single bit
I love our walks, the regular picnics
And our calls in summer, I must admit

And with this time I’ve learned to understand you, Dexter
This is a brag, perhaps, but not conjecture
With a gesture, you give a lecture,
Thankfully this class will last past the semester

While evergreen is our wintery scene, lit with snowflakes, alligators, and all things between
I cannot help but gaze on to spring, for who knows what joys that season will bring?
Up we’ll rise, held by the flowers in bloom, mimicking between our thighs, I presume
And how fitting that the magnolia tree blossoms at six months for you and me.
I didn't know I could rhyme, I guess that's what happens when you stop writing for a few years
Andie Mar 2019
days break
nights fall
The moon phases in and out
between empty and full

trees burst forth
boulders crumble
The earth spins around
set at an angle

wind blows
water ebbs and flows
Fire scorches the land
and makes it fertile and dead

tadpoles transubstantiate
eagles hatch
Minnows appear in small puddles
that dry in summer, leaving no bodies

humans search
humans misplace
And that which they seek
does not exist for them
What is human nature? Is it natural?
Andie Feb 2019
ivory skin, as this paper
ebony hair, as this ink
shining, imbued with moonlight
glistening, dipped in the morn's dew

he is my friend, with
lips of roses
a nose, a thorn
and flowers, rathe in winter

she is your lover with
fangs of eggshells
eyes of marbles
blood of honey
and flesh of black lace

one mark, a fall, a
wellspring in the night
we sing the evensong
then where do we go?
I don't know what I'm feeling. This feels totally right, yet totally wrong
Andie Jan 2019
flowing water runs

between trees light dances high

quick fish dart amoung

and I lean against some wood

a green Croc© drifts slowly through
For a midterm project
Andie Nov 2018
cascading out from open veins
time develops into adumbration
it splatters on marbles floors,
and fractured pocket-watches

I have become drunk on the impossible past
Andie Oct 2018
It is morning-time, and I walk
meandering paths pull me, a crisp breeze pushes me
the earth supports me and falls away with each passing step
it can only hold me when I'm there

softwood trees bend around the trail, and hardwood trees enrich their denouement. A glittering canopy of dewy leaves curls atop my route, the moonbeams seeming to dawn from inside each perfect ornament. but I know the finished moon floats just above them

my steps flow in a steady rhythm, regularly broken by the passage of a memory. Sometimes it is time. Sometimes it is a dance. Once it was another Being that caught my consideration; a ghostly doe, visible just through a break in the wood, a brown and white-speckled spectre crashing through the hinterland, startled by my feet, by my breath-

the breeze is stronger now, and made anxious by the din my pace quickens. memories stream by faster, woken up by the filtered moonlight, pulled out from abeyance. leaves drifting upon a whirling river, clouds being ripped into a storm.

it is morning-time, and I walk
the sky is deepening, though the moon is descending
too much has happened, too much has passed into yore
I remember just enough, and it is mourning-time
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