I daily call you out my inner voice.
I get to listen to my echoes but no replies from you.

I daily search you my inner voice.
You are nowhere.

I can't feel your presence in me.

Do you still perdure in me ?

Where are you ?
Are you hidden behind the ebony trees in the forbidden forest ?
Has fire burned you to ashes ?

Your unread words on the paper have been washed away by the spilled water.
The regret of not reading you is burning inside me.

Yes , I always kicked you out of my soul.
But this was never my instinct.
I did this under the stimulus of others.

You are my soul.
Without you , my life is a deserted valley.

Wherever you are , please come back to me.
I promise you that I will always listen to you and obey your orders.

did i lose it already ?
this fragile notion
piercing the fog
that hovers my ocean ?

i must place it
somewhere safe
so i may remember
the fragment
if not the face

perhaps this snippet
of waste?
     no, there is
not left a whit of space

Here is the vessel,
a white bleached and
prepared remnant
of an elm or a spruce        
that once
stood
         Tall
and shaded the sun
from exhausted lost
explorers—

cut stripped and
diced
to provide
               for Me
this small
space,

so i may forget...

"memory paper"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

The mist clouded my sight
The dress I wore was white
I was lost I could tell
So, I followed the **** of the tower bell
The wind swooshed past my face
It was a mystifying maze
I was cold
All I had was the warmth of
your love                          
My hair was damp
You switched on the table
lamp
The branches creaked
Under my feet.
At some distance the water cascaded
The trees in front of me faded
The insects were buzzing
The paper on your nightstand were rustling
The woods whispered
The birds no longer chirped
I am still looking for peace.
Our photo frame on the mantelpiece.
You burned it down
I tripped on the frozen ground.
I knew I was losing you
I could no longer feel you.
The scratches on my elbow and knees
The frost on the leaves.
I feel like I’ve heard and seen this before
I cannot take it anymore.
These sounds are noise to my ears.
All I see are my fears.
They screamed at me monstrously
I can’t handle this cacophony.

she's a poet —  
whose soul is a mystery  
and is full of loneliness.

she's a poet —
whose mind is overflowing with ethereal beauty of words
and mellifluous screams of agony .                                        

she's a poet —  
who uses tears as her ink
and scarred skin as her crumpled paper.

she's a poet —    
who weaves majestic metaphors
and sails through her ocean of thoughts.

she's a poet —  
who sits at a dark corner of the room  
and cried into poetry by her tears that are made of ink.

Naturally walked.

Even the alacrity in the spots.
Stars the undoing of nervous endeavors.
And pines made of thought thrown asunder.
The globes.
Softly speaking.
And smile fragile.
Then gone.
The spiral orb.
She waits.
In arms.
Tended to in black.
Asked in gloom.
Pillaging mind wasting.
And rest.
In a frantic sooth.


Garrett Johnson

To peel off your soft skin, mold it
into armor, let the blood gush out
until it fills your cup, and you gulp it in
as medicine; to pluck out your silenced
tongue, watch it slither across blank
pages, as it paints them scarlet-sweet
like your heart; to **** the trauma, bury it
under words, but make it immortal
on the same paper.