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Dec 2015 · 401
Her Words
A Haya Dec 2015
A lavender-misted brume forms corridors
paving her a bedraggled roped bridge; of
platitude she utters not, but strings of pale
pearls, lapping intrinsically into a braided
fantasy

Glowing sun, hazed pink by the horizon's
edge, before it an arch gilded in bleached
effervescent roses; we purify what might
even if it's flesh is scrubbed raw by nature's
own will

Jardin, jardin! Ou est tu? My heels ache
with footsteps not taken, the pursuit of
whither the moon shines on its own, and
winds, sighing, converge from all directions
tranquilly.
Dec 2015 · 362
Silky Briers
A Haya Dec 2015
Fleeting flashes, crashes, of a desperate end
entwined into the fibers of my mind, the essence
of my blood, of my mere
being.

Tiles blinding, the grin of a mindless maniac
upon the greedy grasp of the grim death,
yanked into the oblivion
of eternity.

Melted crystals, flowing, bubbling, calling my
name, so attractive, a sultry dessert, in a way
a sweet ending to a melancholy
before.

Take a chance, dip a foot, gamble with fate
a sea of possibilities it is not, in the end
of the day, it is a pocket within it
a knife.

Fabric as satin to a human's touch, the feel of basking in
the brightness and hotness of the scorcher, but I ask
how, then, could the silky smooth, upon the call,
unveil a thing so sharp, morbidly used?

The graveness and grim of a place quite dimly lit
the pallor of the pretty porcelain stark against
the ripples of transparent silk afloat;
inviting.

The satiny tub awaits so patient and kind
as the river's waves morbidly sharp sway
me into a merry wager, hand the despair
for a shiny-wrapped contraire, attractive.

Perhaps shall I dare for a taste, the thrill
but before, slimy tendrils curl around me
limbs encircled in a ruse of freedom.

How could I be a fool, enough to believe then
allow myself to fall into a bush of these
luscious roses, rusted, singed petals and
daggers for thorns underneath the surface
of a sublime promise and statuesque?

And thus I drown, and drown, and drown,
into a stormy ocean full of prickly briers
and as time crosses into the realm of
nothingness, vacuum, the truth sinks in;
the emptiness spans endlessly, and I will
forever float, eternally exist, nowhere else, only in the screaming white,
alone.
Dec 2015 · 506
Esther's Elysium
A Haya Dec 2015
Writing stories; blowing soul into descriptions
burying a luminous seed into her "ebony hair"
and "towering physique"...
like Michelangelo setting a Dying Slave free
by carving marble, such a benevolent artist


Writing stories; piping a miscellany of twisted
tragedies, Elysian epiphanies, and hearty hearths
out of our minds...
not as if we are celestial Gods; no, but as if wisdom
tapped on our skulls, and whispered a symphony


Writing stories; braiding windswept trails into
hacking hearts, mellow minds, and aching heels
bolted onto a crossroad...
to bequeath them, you (and ourselves) a fifth
path, a dire escape into a less knotted universe
Dec 2015 · 470
Epiphany at 11:59 P.M.
A Haya Dec 2015
Mangled, bony fingers, groveling
for lapping water, a dendritic rivulet
ceases its division for no one

I powder the amethysts for sand, for
only the sensation of opulence, anywise
the silver tarnishes in abundance

And what's the worst I'd ever seen
if not our maize sun ashen, drained of its
rise and incentive to foster grass
Dec 2015 · 918
My Sun
A Haya Dec 2015
Charred debris drowned my sun
in a rubble blackened by a wildfire
they said, have some cash, 'be here
by tomorrow, thought dimes and hundreds
could placate my torn Achilles tendon

Listen when I shout! Salvage my sun!
Sunken in the aftermath of a downplayed
spark. All these twisted ivies and things
in me, I do not want your materialistic bling
it means dust to me, resurrect him, God

Tomorrow I blanket the shadowed
fields, tawny grasses hissing in agony
left barren by their deceased rain of serenity.
Oh, I choke on the abrasive reeds! Drawing blood
from my soiled knees, Sun, Sun, Sun
Inspired by Plath and Poe.

— The End —