Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Astrea Nov 2020
my love letter to dreamers is the

solitary snow flower in an ashen field

missing your sweet innocence & the
dimming embers of your fiery heart

leaking a deathly pallor too cold to touch
bitter rue tasting like moonlight kissing purple cauliflower

ephemerality is the gentle promise of something
beyond this world of banality

for you know, dreamers of young & old,
the silver, the blue, the yellow,

the colorless & intangible is
where you will reside

forever & more
forever & ever & more
Something inspired by a recent favourite song of mine, called A Love Letter to Filmmakers
Astrea Nov 2020
pink silk, floral embroidery
black ribbon, white trimmings
paired with soft slippers
& a twinkling tiara
Bibbidi-bobbidi- Boo!

mirror flashed, smiling sweetly is a princess;
skirt floating & feathery feet pivoting
dancing in the woods with merry deer
& singing birds
follow the faeries, drown in their music
the shinning flutes & playful pipe
luring one to a gentle doze

low bells chiming
woke up to an enchanted ruin,
go home, go home
crawling thorns & ****** roses
greedy crows & harden earth
body bursting & long limbs stretching
mirror grinned, a princess no more
but a grown woman
I'm selling my princess dress today, reckon I wouldn't wear it anymore. It used to meant the world to me, I literally fought my mother to get one, but growing old is both a delightful & terrible thing. I don't have to sell it, it's almost like my last piece of innocence and childhood, but I thought there's no use clinging to a lost past.
Astrea Nov 2020
Solitude,
they say, is the drifting glacier
amidst a rolling sea
against a faint yellowish light
at dusk over a particularly misty sky;
you see a white fish washed onshore —
quivering and pulsing,
then stilled.
A fleeting glimpse of the glowing dusk yesterday. It's a very serene, calming kind of color exclusive to the sky that no human touch can wish to reproduce.
Astrea Nov 2020
the body is a lonely mountain
mosses and fences kiss my skin,
curious deer nudge at my nose,
brown hare huddle up my feet —
my amiable friends at spring

chirping birds & summer cicadas
sing my sorrow
evening haze & morning dew
collect my tears, sliding them
past the valley of the throat, to the pit
of the stomach, forming
a crystal-clear blue lake glittering with diamond dust

run run run
fallen red leaves surging with the rapid,
spiriting to the sea, disappeared
into the white, cold mass

echoes come back from the dead forest
palms open, decaying
the body is a lonely mountain
Inspired by a classical Japanese text I was reading for my course :))) The Book of Idleness -- the name of the book, for those who are curious
Astrea Nov 2020
Dancing masks & faceless crowd,
bowing to the purple pink clouds &
silvery tears of yesterday's vow;
leaping lions & flying elephants
drunken on the sweet mead
& bread rolls when —

BANG!

quiet,
dying embers
kindling, black birds cooing
a mournful tune & dark smoke grinning
with a mocking hat — all smiles gone, musing
where the fire rings & laughing clowns have disappeared into —
the carnival downtown or through the bedroom window?

No, no — it must not be
but my fevered dream in this wild, lonely summer night.
I have always wanted to write something about a carnival frenzy type of poem ;))
Astrea Oct 2020
Lost to us were the
bright and sunny days in the 60s,
lazy afternoons & the pristine scent of grass after rain,
all that matters is invisible to our naked eye.

Time is the bottle
we cram memories with &
fleeting is our being ****** into an unprepared tomorrow,
drowning in the long-gone reverie of yesterday

Nostalgia is the sweet lie we murmured, the small
cloud of dust suspended in the air &
the smoke rings spiralled toward
a December night sky.

Forgotten dreams & present madness is a
scratched vinyl record stuck in the fissure of time;
crackling noise muffling our sighs —
Gone, they say, gone.
I'm feeling a bit weird recently, like I'm longing for something I have never experienced, missing old days before I was even born.
Old days old days, why are they always better than the present?
Astrea Oct 2020
You told me
there was a certain beauty in the never-return —
cherries wither into whispers of smoke,
river shivers upon winter's stroke
sparrows mourn and sing and forget,
how we used to be strangers, lovers, then strangers again
deep in the darkness you stared at me, smiling
with a mouth of pearly teeth
crushing the piling blossoms underneath, saying
I better remember this fading fragrance, and
carry it to your grave,
for this is our last parade.
Wrote this in a haste, didn't think it's good enough
Next page