Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Sophia I Mar 18
There is too much of her to count or chart.

Too young to have no memories of summer, on the verge of leaving myself behind forever.

The sickle moon smiled placidly down as I melted into sea foam.

I tightroped along the silver trail of foam

I can't leave myself yet. My mother in her bed, sleeping soundly, and the river glittering through the bullrushes.

I walk into the night, as white as a milk cat.

I would like to be found on some shingle beach,
Blasted dry by the desolate air.
My siren song has died in my throat,
And I've samphire in my hair.

How do you like the fire contained
in one dark and inward-turning eye?

I dreamt last night that I was Venus and took a lover.

I remember
the velvet death of winter frost.
so softly, be still now.

Some infernal dove wept for me
and I boast it on my ring finger.

some cloak of velvet that I could don
and in so doing disappear forever;
mute, placid, lovely,
a shadow.

I am but a dim flare of light, panic lantern.

This apricot pudding is my third lover.

Was the garden always this green?

I long to be naked
And shivering
Dive into the cold, rich earth of a plowed field.

I wield a wand, an owl, a milky white eye.

Hot candlewax pools like the spent love of a *****.

All the little seeds wormed out onto my skirt.

The birds picked their fruit from the stem of winter, and the harvest of summer love is over.

Darkness in the cosmic pit.
Sophia I Mar 18
I would like to walk under the sun, and in the shade where it is cooler,
When the woodland floor isn't all dry leaf anymore,
Just purple and blue, waving a little, like a sea.
To drag my pale white hand in the waters, to bring it out cold and soft as a feather,
and hear a blackbird and a thrush pass the time of day.
To turn down the road and wade into the creek, instead of walking on by,
To look upon the green green face of spring.
Sophia I Jan 5
I've forgotten what it feels like to walk on cobbles,
Forgotten the smell of life, vanilla from the bakery, coffee in the morning,
Warm air and leaves blowing. I've forgotten the sun, that the planets still turn, how other people say my name,
What it's like to hug a friend in passing.
Forgotten standing in a butterfly house in the summer and smiling, couples sleeping like lazy housecats on the grass in the park,
The lives of strangers. 18
and now soon to be 19, too young to have no memories of summer, on the verge of leaving myself behind forever.  I think that soon the world will forget me too.
Sophia I Nov 2020
We all went down to the river early one Saturday,
along the main road, cold hands in pockets,
walked through the park and stopped to hear the happy shouts of children playing on the swings.
I'd forgotten what it was like to play.

And into the river they all went, leaping and splashing like otters
in the cold November water; churning and frothing, sending dazzling light everywhere. I saw the black branches of the trees
shooting up every which way, impossibly high,
wise and old and solid, against the endless white of the sky.
I sat on the bank with the towels and stroked a little dog that walked by.

That night I looked a little longer at the leaves blowing on the quad;
the mist swirling on the grass and
lights blinking off and on in windows with the curtains open-
I saw life reflected there.
Sophia I Aug 2020
The wintering started on a dark December eve; slowly and silently,
it numbed me through the window panes.

I dived off into the wine dark sea.
As cold as death, as cold as resignation.

The sickle moon smiled placidly down as I melted into sea foam.
Sophia I Jun 2020
Do you remember that night when
the pines thrashed their poor limbs
in the dark,
And the moon slipped away unnoticed
as though it was a ghosting?
Spun from spider's silk, it darted shyly behind the comforting skirt of a cloud:
that was the first dream.
And do you remember
how I tightroped along the silver trail of foam where the lake lapped at the cold rock, imagined myself
a creature native and indued unto that element?
I've heard that Nymphs bleed a certain colour-
When I slipped and fell
my blood was the royalest blue,
                             I swear it.
Sophia I May 2020
this is the last golden moon that I will see, I should think
the only and the last           so I tiptoe down to Jericho

and watch them wash the artichoke hearts in brine

(I wonder if I could cure my own heart in that fashion)

and the man in the cloth cap gives me a coffee from the machine


I walk back in the weak light of that shadow hour,
When all is still and the doves are cooing in their nests
the moon winks down on me. Don't do it, sister


I am the only and the last    she says           for there is no moonlight in the sepulchre


and in my blue silk shawl, my pale veined hands            that moonstone ring like a fossilised tear

I can't leave myself yet. My mother

in her bed, sleeping soundly, and the river glittering through the bullrushes

this is not my only day, nor my last.
Next page