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madeline-waifePoems
1. I think my life is bigger in their dreams In their stale images of grandeur behind their fading eyelids fluttering with what still passes as hope. And down the hall, my eyes like the scorching blue beginnings of gasping flames quietly burning me up from inside, my own dreams not yet formed. Years ago the winds of their dreams reached me in my angelic slumber. I know those vivid hopes, nay, prayers made me grow more than the spinach I joyously bemoaned. But tonight my heart is shrunken with the knowledge that the stars are mere reflections of what is already gone. They, curled together, their own dreams of reaching those pale stars shattered with neglect, send new ones my way, unaware that I’ve searched for my place under the feeble moon and cannot find it behind these naked blue flames. 2. I am the same girl with blue flames for eyes but stretched, molded like clay, hardened and glazed after being thrown on the potter’s wheel that was my childhood. As they lie in their dreams, I walk into a dark house under the burden of their dreams combined with my own. Mingled together, I cannot distinguish my hopes from theirs, the clay has been baked to the same white crust around my breath, my heart, the place where the flames are lit. I still haven’t reached that yet – not reached, but maybe touched, glimpsed, grazed my toes against it. Before me, these blue flames form into something less dangerous, less new, the yellow-orange blaze warm, bursting, sending off sparks – And I know I can light my own fires under this feeble moon and make it glow brighter than they did, brighter than even their womb-sent dreams made their hearts glow.
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Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 8:12 PM UTC
While They Sleep
1. I think my life is bigger in their dreams In their stale images of grandeur behind their fading eyelids fluttering with what still passes as hope. And down the hall, my eyes like the scorching blue beginnings of gasping flames quietly burning me up from inside, my own dreams not yet formed. Years ago the winds of their dreams reached me in my angelic slumber. I know those vivid hopes, nay, prayers made me grow more than the spinach I joyously bemoaned. But tonight my heart is shrunken with the knowledge that the stars are mere reflections of what is already gone. They, curled together, their own dreams of reaching those pale stars shattered with neglect, send new ones my way, unaware that I’ve searched for my place under the feeble moon and cannot find it behind these naked blue flames. 2. I am the same girl with blue flames for eyes but stretched, molded like clay, hardened and glazed after being thrown on the potter’s wheel that was my childhood. As they lie in their dreams, I walk into a dark house under the burden of their dreams combined with my own. Mingled together, I cannot distinguish my hopes from theirs, the clay has been baked to the same white crust around my breath, my heart, the place where the flames are lit. I still haven’t reached that yet – not reached, but maybe touched, glimpsed, grazed my toes against it. Before me, these blue flames form into something less dangerous, less new, the yellow-orange blaze warm, bursting, sending off sparks – And I know I can light my own fires under this feeble moon and make it glow brighter than they did, brighter than even their womb-sent dreams made their hearts glow.
Written by
madeline-waife
American
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 8:12 PM UTC
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