i am a daughter of wind and fire
in the summer when the two clashed
i was born

my mother,
she ignites dry leaves beneath her feet,
providing warmth when night comes
but with too much fury she fuels herself and destroys
and into dust we become if we are one step too close

my father,
the east wind who comforts with air
sweeping us to meet the stars when the fire scorches
but he is also a hurricane if we are not careful
he will perish the trees and the life residing within

my sister,
she is safe with her little bird friends
they will fly her away when the forest starts to burn
she will leave with the gentle winds
they will fly her charcoal body to a near riverbank

myself,
i am safe for i have developed strength
to tolerate the fire and the wind and
the quiet of the fiery requiem,
a lullaby to put life to sleep
at dawn, the ashes learn to fly once more
the trees fall, a kingdom of crimson and gold
and amongst the gray i am risen
a daughter of wind and fire
the product of graying love
of two graying souls:
a wildfire

—

the forest is a beauty of its own. however, like all things, beauty does not last, although the very concept remains. it resides within our hearts. it is sweet, yes, which is why we choose to linger to it when in reality such beauty simply does not exist. in this poem, a family is illustrated. grim it seems to some, while the poem actually tells of a still-functioning broken family. not all are raised in a garden full of lilies and magnolias. our roots are deep within the rich-brown soil of a gloomy forest where light seldom shines, but we grow just as beautiful nonetheless.

I am staring at the wall
It stares back at me
Blank, heavy;
It has listened to everything I had to say.
There is a scribble,
A weirdly neat handwriting:
NOSCE TE IPSUM
Latin, huh? Funny
When have I ever been so sophisticated?
Beside it a reminder I rarely read:
“You are nothing but
my pride and joy.”
How I value others’ words but never mine.
My eyes are becoming a little heavy.

for some time now i have been thinking about the possibilities of my beloved having drowned in the same abyss as my own. i will not ask them—no, i do not think i can, because for the longest time i thought that it was only i whose lungs had been suffocated with the inner conflict of whether or not my thoughts meant something, the confusion of whether or not what i had been feeling were mere ghosts of forgone memories.

for reasons like this i have decided to remain sunken, a living ship wreck, half fallen apart. how dare i assume the best of them when i knew fully how sorrow shines the brightest when Moon hides herself, too cowardly to confront Night.

perhaps i have been achingly comfortable with the growing silence of dusk. all are quiet except chirping birds and a few hundred tireless, dissonant fragments of the mind. how frightfully calm they become as day breaks—a melancholic melody

this is when i decide i probably should stay awake to let life flash before my eyes for another day.

i will be
six feet deep
buried
amongst filthy dirt
and our memories