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Caitlyn Stone Jun 2019
we sigh and
we stamp our feet,
rub our hands,
red cheeks aflame
'oh, dear.'
our breath makes clouds,
and 'What's the matter?'
And the clouds are extinguished flames,
which billow into being from our blistering breaths,
rising straight toward the white sun,
straight on upwards.

Downward cast eyes,
wet eyelashes,
scrunching our noses with cheeks like red roses,
And the cold is everywhere, everywhere.
and what are we waiting for?
In this God-awful cold?
And there is some humour in your eye.
A secret, which you rub in your hands
whisper into those white breath-clouds,
and upwards it billows,
to God-knows-where,
as we sigh and wait in the cold, cold air.
Caitlyn Stone Dec 2018
The rope was frayed and tightening and frightening
the hollow man
who held on with his black fingernails
and his brow furrowed as deep
as the well that echoed down the core of the world
until he couldn’t hear or care and he fell too ******* the
stones that littered the ground under the
broken buildings
which were too big to crumble like this
and the walls he had built and the
dust that he ate.
How tightening and frightening! How deep the brow!
How hallow the man that ate the dust
that ate the earth and frayed the rope!
Caitlyn Stone Sep 2017
I trace my finger along the mountains,
My lungs fill with the frozen particles.
A sphere of silence warps my head,
It’s beautiful and dangerous and something instead.

I trace my finger along the ravines,
I dip my hair in the dripping stream.
I dip my toe in the snow where I bled,
It’s cold and biting and something instead.

I trace my finger along the trees,
I’m painted in their blooming breeze.
I lie with the flowers in their flower bed,
It’s silent and soft and something instead.

I trace my finger along the mist,
My lips still line the sky that I kissed.
I watch the clouds; heavy as lead,
It’s far and close and something instead.

I trace my finger, along the rough shore,
It’s grey with fatigue, lazy and bored.
The oceans speaks, but I can’t catch what they said,
It’s constant and tired something instead.

I trace my finger along the ivy vines,
Their thin bodies grow and intertwine.
I look down at my feet, at the leaves that they shed,
It’s comforting and sad and something instead.

I trace my finger along the misted mountain heads,
My lungs fill with the blue atmosphere,
My heart fills with the sweet dew scent,
If just for a second,
Then I open my eyes and see something instead.
I'll see you soon.
Caitlyn Stone Aug 2017
The dust has settled on your pale old heart.
Do not touch me.
You cannot.
You try,
Caitlyn Stone Jul 2017
A flutter in your hands,
A downy brush, murmur of touch.
‘hush, hush’ you whisper.
And feathers brush your palm, your fingers, your cupped hands.

‘quiet, quiet’ you coo, in some gentle, soothing way,
Your mouth close to your fingers,
So the whisper moves in light; soft and grey.

You can see through some crevice of hands,
The frightened eye, the quiet heart,
Beating, breathing, some quiet trembling song.
‘quiet, hush, don’t be frightened, don’t be scared.’

While clouds are moving in some far off sky,
A stroke of bronze, and touch of frost.
And in some frosted field, some valley’s cusp,
some quiet bird takes flight,
in a pulse of life, a deep cool breath, a surge of bronze light,
Some quiet birds take flight.
  May 2017 Caitlyn Stone
Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Caitlyn Stone May 2017
The stars and the moon peer down from their dark cacoon,
At the man who walks upon the shadowed fields.
The lights of the town, sit flickering atop the swollen hill,
They will not sleep nor will they lie still.

What a beautiful place to be lost and unknown.
To run your hands where the wind has not yet blown.
But he does not know this, lest he loses his confidence,
And continues as though he knows where to go.

The valley is wrapped in the beautiful cold,
Where the stars do not warm and the wind does not blow.
The cold that holds warmth down in its belly,
The stomach of the beast. ‘Not to fret’; says he.

The air below the sky and above the valley,
Is strange and it’s quiet; not light, nor is it heavy.
The air coddles him and asks him questions,
And looks him in the eyes as though they’ve not met him.

From the corners of the earthy bowl, the wind howls and blows and bites,
And sting his eyes and make him cry,
And kiss and ***** his stinging face,
And wrap him in their cold embrace.

Still, he walks, through the golden sheaths,
The trees on the border talk ‘neath their heavy leaves.
Close to him you can hear his breath,
Warm and cold and deep in his chest.

The bones of the sky are milky white,
And the arms of the earth embrace the night.
‘Defy me’. Says he, and ‘discover me’, says they,
‘Before our arms are wrinkled and old and our bones are cold and grey.’

‘Break me and bind me, but you can’t defy me.’
‘search me and map me, but you won’t truly know me.’
For it is he and it is I that beg you to defy,
The very thing that we create, the success we crave and the mistakes we make.
How weak we are when we think we’re strong,
And how we know they are right and we wish we were wrong.
But pull me from my reverie and make me cry and make me see,
That it is better to be in your dark cacoon
than to be as sad as your milky moon.
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