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fray narte Oct 2021
today, demeter is nothing but
a bewildered ghost in a haunted meadow,
skinning flowers as they weep:
they're neatly lined as in an execution,
the creek, a boneyard,
a lair of sorrows for her dazed *******.

today, the sun desperately combs
through tree branches
for an abandoned nest of grief
but its hands just stray too far
and poke at a meadow's wound —
nails cutting through graying skin.

this is a poem written by a bystander.
this is a poem written by a witness.
this is a poem written by the victim.
the world blurs its lines today
and demeter is nothing
but a forgotten ghost
in a town painted new.
Emily Apr 2021
the first time we met
you were daisies.


laughing in rain

running in wildflowers

resting there too

...then you were gone.

the next time
you were roses.


running from the world

playing broken pianos

living in empty castles

...then you were gone.

the third time
you were violets.


drinking bitter petal tea

watching stars

dressing in diamonds

...then you were gone.

a fourth
a fifth
a sixth

i find you again

it's all different
every time.

but you never remember.

not me.

not until your last moments.

...and so it repeats.

inspired by "immortal" by reinaeiry. (an immortal falls for the same soul over and over again)
Emily Apr 2021
a lifetime
short and simple
living in the wood
bathing in moon
splashing in rivers
watching stars
it's peaceful.
Teddy S Jan 2021
I want to go live in a cottage in the woods
By myself with a few pets here and there
My friends would live not too far and would visit every day
My family would visit once a month and only on holidays,
Except for my extended family who would not ever come to my house, I’d only see them at theirs
I would have a cat, a bunny, and a dog
Maybe a chinchilla
I could bake cakes, cookies, and pies by the window in the kitchen
I could have a garden filled with flowers and fruits
I could have a stone pathway leading to my house
I could practice my witchcraft in peace and live happily on my own
I usually close my eyes to imagine this perfect place
Where I can dance in the rain and watch Studio Ghibli every day
I hope that I can have that one day,
To live peacefully on my own without a care in the world
brynna Jan 2021
you are but my sacred counterpart;
the universe's most precious art
who closes the tears,
who blows me soft air;
the one who i can not bear to see depart
brynna Dec 2020
sun through the window,
the beat of your heart
through your white wedding dress,
i trace reflections art
brynna Dec 2020
let me lay a kiss upon your temple

count your freckles, soft skin so simple
short one i found in an old journal
Aspen Nov 2020
you write to me
about our kids and the hill we live on
you write to me
about the "honey, I'm home"s and soft loaves of homemade bread
about making soup as a family
about working from home living on the land
about swatting hands away from dinner until its ready
about eating outside in the light summer evening
picnic baskets soft glances as you do
homemade jam and uncut meadow filled lawns
and even though we haven't talked in weeks
I see it so clearly that I'm overwhelmed
tears of craving that
of wanting that
of wanting you  
I had forgotten how quickly I bend for you
gentle words about a tender life
I'm bending
so far, for you  

but you leave
long gone
too far to whisper your soft words
I will shatter
like I always do
break in half
even in two
id choose that
id choose life with you
Isn't that terrifying
fray narte Oct 2020
to lie down next to you in all of the perpetuity,
moss will grow all over our skin —
as if mushrooms, feeding on
dying, young aspens
and maybe the forest will claim us for its own.

to lie down and watch light slowly go mad
at the sight of the fog that festers,
at the feel of the skin that rots:
a macabre sight to the outside world, yet —
a lively feast to a ****** of crows.

soon, sweet one, candles will die
and i'll be lying next to you —

the feel of daylights, forgotten.
fray narte Oct 2020
i am fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to me; if you dust off my skin enough, you'll see traces of the sighs we exchange — spilling down gracelessly, they bruise a fragile skin. i have mastered the art of naming them after wild lilacs.

maybe for once, i can say that i am soft enough to grow flowers on my wrists. my lungs. my sternum — all the parts of me that hurt.

but i know too well all about screaming in barren lands. i have thrown my poems in a forest fire. i have forgotten how to breathe without hands around my neck. i have wished to fall on a sword, way too many times to still call these open wounds as bruises — these bruises as flowers — these flowers as soft.

i am fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to me — kindly, and yet, how can i tremble over gentle things? maybe pain isn't what it always is, and i wish to unlearn this language — the mother tongue, whose every word i know by heart. and maybe one day, when it sighs my name, i finally will stop sighing back.

but now, this bed is caving in under all these lilacs and glassy, distant eyes. oh, such a classic case of a girl gone mad at the sight of sunbeams on dying flowers — aching in silence, as she watches it all.

i am fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to me. and outside, the sun rises in vain.
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