Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
  Oct 2023 Emily Jane
Julian
i believe,
even the stars
get tired.

when the night sky
had folded them away
back into the darkness

and the moon,
that lonesome thing,
has doused itself in shadows.

so will you too, my friend
shy away from the light
as if it would burn
if it reached you.

maybe you feel,
you just are not strong enough
to face the day.

that the midnight hour
is a broken thing

and oh, the silence
is deafening.

and you and i know, even the stars
are tired.

you mourn for them
as their light expires.
Emily Jane Oct 2023
My bones ache
My eyes are hot and raw
I am utterly cast out to sea
Unanchored
Treading water in a vast expanse of terrifying blue turbulence
I shout into the empty nothingness
Driving the air out of my lungs to call for you
"Where are you?"
"Please don't leave"
"I am not ready..."
But you are gone
and my voice echoes in the deep
like the devastating and futile cries of the last Kauaʻi ʻōʻō bird searching for a mate who will not come
So this is heartbreak?
  May 2022 Emily Jane
Chris Saitta
Autumn is a Greek sea,
A summation of wet leaves,
Gathered wicks of sunset,
A hypocaust of warm water,
That lies beneath our feet,
Incense from the Sea of Crete,
Risen to the airy suggestive.

Autumn is a word in the mind, fallen leaf-like to the mouth,
How like the orange rind, our ancient past is shriveled under pillars.
“Hypocaust” is essentially a hollow space under the floor where a furnace then supplied heat to homes, a central heating system some references date back to Ancient Greece but certainly prevalent in Ancient Rome.
Emily Jane Jun 2021
There is a world outside my window
it screams and rushes and roars  
Relentlessly in motion
a ceaseless current
of to and from
coming and going (“Wynberg !?”)
that batters against my walls
Even the trees
thrash about
in an angry hurried cadence
“You must not keep still!” everything shouts
Yet I remain
in stasis
cut off from the boundless energy
that proudly moves on and on and on
  May 2019 Emily Jane
beth fwoah dream
bluebells flower in the rain,
boy of love,

buttercups on long stems
full of summer’s gold,

the world opens its doors and windows
the air feels fresh and clear,

sadness weaves its way under the trees
prefers to wait in the shadows,

i dream about you a lot,
boy of love.
Emily Jane May 2019
You
The fingers of a dying sun reach through my blinds
and find me
Absorbed by thoughts of you

Shafts of sleepy light **** me
gold seeps in and marks my cheek
I wish it were you
Caressing my back and brushing my jaw and stretching across my bed

But it is not.
So for now I contend with the touch of a dipping sun
gradually swallowed by a jealous horizon.
Emily Jane Feb 2019
The mountains whisper across the rugged earth
Echos upon echos shimmering through the millennia
A language far preceding the etchings of men, scratched into the ground.
Reverberating through the depths of rock and soil and stone.
A creaking between the roots, steeping into the mantle, and into the sky.
A silent dialogue, between the above and the below, and the within and the around.
An undercurrent that flows unheard beneath the flimsy corrupting crust of mankind,
We are visitors, and it is not our song the mountains sing.
Next page