Rachael Judd Jul 7
She smelled of old books and great stories
If you looked upon her you could see all the lives she lived through in all the pages she read
Like the ink left the paper and found a home within her skin
She was a walking novel with hidden stories living inside her head
When she spoke the world grew silent just to hear the untold words she held tightly within
As if her words were oxygen and without them no one could breathe
Her eyes the color of stormy skies
If you looked close enough the black in her eyes was an endless void, a doorway to the world she hid inside.
  Jul 2 Rachael Judd
Polar
He
He speaks the language of flowers
Quietly toiling in his garden
Digging, raking and smoothing soil,
Gently coaxing nature to match his vision.
He knows the bees, spiders, beetles, worms and earwigs
Regarding them as friends.
He follows seasons, moon and stars
As others do people
Enthralled at the changes they bring.
He listens as the birds sing
Watching with joy as
Fledgling take wing.
My death will be liberating.

And I do not say that in the sense
that I am going to find a cliff
and take a good jump off.

No.

I am just trying to find a
clever way to tell you

that I do not know what is going
to happen next.

You see,

there is a
fine line
between
dreaming and
mortality

and

I am finding out for myself
that being in love
does not always
involve

being awake.

And for my sake
I fall in love with daydreams,
nightmares,
hazy realities
and

the hung-over idea

of not being enough.

It is all out of my hands.
                 It is all out of time.

And the only thing I have left to do,
now,


is decide.
Thank you to anyone that reads this.
  Jul 1 Rachael Judd
sir humbug
the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous

luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves

when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised


and so the job begins
Where is it
The hand to hold
Why is it
That it has gone cold

You are gone
From your place next to me
You chose it this way
You made it to be

Am I not enough
Feed my anxiety
Is she more for you
Are you less for me

Let’s put an end to this
Before I put an end to me
Wake up
Wake up
From this bad dream
Yours is rosemary
Turning every adversary
Silencing any commentary
Peace sings like the quiet in a library

The canary in your eyes speaks of blue
The clouds and oceans in her view
Clear skies to fall through
Freedom glances across the room, I fly anew

Alone I wouldn’t leave the aviary
No belief in my wings I’d rather be cautionary
Mine is scary
Yours is rosemary
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