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Vulture,
picked at the soft spot in my stomach
released the caterpillars and
made bows with my intestines,
then presented them to me like some present.
Was I supposed to be grateful?
That you picked through my graveyard,
found the fresh rot that still existed
and exploited it to make me a victim again
but put your name on the tomb
and circle above to make sure
there was no witness.
You lingered to make sure I wasnt moving?
Make sure that the last bit of breath you gave me, escaped through my mouth, putrid,
and im sure you waited for the chance to dive if that last breathe ever dared to speak your name to anyone within ear shot
so the truth wouldn't remain.
If that last breath
would be used to write a statement.
If the last breath would choose to tell the truth,
while you cried wolf. You cried, you wolf.
In sheeps clothes. You never cared.
You watched with wings outstretched to dry
while blocking the view and
soaking it up, all for you.
You leech. You vampire.
I remove the mat from my door,
you cannot come in.
I cover my crown. put back the ceiling so that you can no longer circle the sky
looking to see if im dead. not still.
I had fallen, true, not for you.
But for the expectation that you failed to deliver, despite the bar being just below the surface
and like the rose, from the concrete, I rose.
Never needing fodder. No father. No daddy.
No ring but the one on my door that caught every last word you wouldnt dare speak to a peer but I hold, loaded, one in the chamber,
fighting my finger off the trigger,
for your sake, for whatever reason.
older piece. finally edited.
The worst they can say is no
The worst that can happen is I'm wrong
The worst that can happen,
isn't the worst at all
The world will still turn,
the sun will still shine,
the moon will still listen when
I'm not feeling fine
I can move on or learn something new,
I don't have to fear the unknown,
I can be me-
not what's wanted from you
And every day it gets easier to breathe
abyss 4d
Shattered illusions.
Shattered hopes.
Shattered dreams.

A house with no structure
built from the remains of ruin.

A powerful soul
in a trembling body.

A house meant to fall.
A house that realized
it’s not a house at all -
just the memory of shelter
pretending to hold.

It asks,
"Then what am I?"

But no one answers.

And so,
what’s left
sinks into the soil,
quietly turning
back into earth.
Who are you when it all comes crashing down?
Falling leaves in autumn,
Washing all the sins away.
Crushed under the feet’s rhythm,
Mixing with the soil and clay.

Washing all the sins away,
Headed to fresh new start.
Mixing with the soil and clay,
Fixing the broken heart.

Headed to fresh new start,
Blooming flowers in spring.
Fixing the broken heart,
Like melodies from violin’s string.

Blooming flowers in spring—
Gave me a fresh new start.
Like melodies from violin’s string,
Solace that flowers bring to my heart.
A Pantoum presenting a complete loop from decay to rebirth and renewal and the solace we find upon renewal.
vik 5d
she dwelt in pith of elder breath,
rusting tongue of loam;
hidden in tulle of former death,
enthroned in nightfall’s home.

the moon bestowed her phantom crown,
the ivy's grasp too deep;
i rose from earth, feathered renown,
in sable wrapped to keep.
Maria 6d
Golden globes form hollow hearts,
acting as a lantern in part.
A tailored dress, and ruffled gown,
make walkers heads, look down.

Parading past the riverbank,
for children’s smiles, we have them to thank.
They return, year on year,
standing tall and firm, without a fear.

The petals stiff, yet soft as silk,
hundreds on hillsides, flowing like milk.
Gleaming in the morning sun,
and boldly still, as the day goes on.

But all good things must come to an end,
the petals wither and the stalks bend.
They fold down and return to the earth,
until next Spring, when the daffodils rebirth.
𝑆𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔,  
𝑇𝑖𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔,
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑍𝑒𝑝ℎ𝑦𝑟’𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑧𝑖𝑛𝑔.  

𝐼𝑡‘𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑣𝑎𝑠, 𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑒,
𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 ℎ𝑢𝑠𝑘.
𝐼𝑡‘𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑦 𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑘
𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑤𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑘.  

𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑟,
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟.
𝑆𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑟,
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑚𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟.  

𝑇𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑡,
𝐴𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑡.
𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑡,
𝐴𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑟’𝑠 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒.  

𝐹𝑎𝑙𝑙,
𝐹𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑎𝑙’𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑡ℎ 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑙.
𝑉𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑙,
𝑊ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙.  

𝑍𝑒𝑝ℎ𝑦𝑟’𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑑,
𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑙𝑑.
𝑊ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑,
𝐴𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑑.  

𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟,
𝑆𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑟,
𝐴𝑠 𝐹𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑎 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑟,
𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑘𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟.  

𝐵𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑝𝑡ℎ 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑛𝑜𝑤,
𝐴𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑜.
𝐿𝑖𝑓𝑒‘𝑠 𝑒𝑏𝑏 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑜,
𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑒.
"Seasons are just like rebirth, The ebb and flow of life and death that will keep cycling till the end of time."
Ellie Hoovs May 21
She was busy counting wolves
conversing with crows
soft and white as a widow's linen.
They scoffed at her,
called her delicate,
only good for stew.
So she dug herself into stories,
buried beneath the noise
let them hunt after the myth of her,
never finding it.  
The forest swallowed her,
dried leaves and damp earth
scented with cinnamon
embracing her bones
in the hush of the underbrush.
She multiplied in silence
beneath the roots,
growing wild
through branches of wildflowers.
The thicket whispers a warning.
The hunters have gone missing,
and the doe-eyed jejune "varmint"
awakens whole, green with breath,
wild,
and never soft again.
Ali Hassan May 17
A flame once thrived on outer heat,
In comfort’s arms, its life complete.
It danced on winds, so wild, so free,
Unknowing warmth could ever flee.

It never learned to guard its core,
Believed the warmth would ever pour
The world had fed its every spark,
And lit its path through every dark

But one still day, the skies turned gray,
The winds grew cold and pulled away
The warmth it knew slipped out of sight,
And left the flame to face the night

It gasped for warmth, for hands, for light,
But frost had chained its wings in flight
Its hues grew pale, its spark withdrew,
A golden heart turned cold and blue

It tried to shout, but none replied,
No flame to spark, no light to guide
It fought to burn but lost the fight,
Now flickered weak in ash and night

Deep in the dark, a whisper grew,
A hidden beat no one once knew
A memory kept, by heart it's known,
A spark that glows when all alone.

In that silence, a spark was born,
A brand-new blaze, untouched, untorn.
No sun, no wind could feed its flame,
It burned alone untamed, aflame.

It shed the wish for borrowed light,
And made its warmth against the night.
Not just to live, but to ignite,
And turn the freeze to glowing white

The cold around began to shift,
Its biting edge began to lift.
The flame, now still but burning deep,
Had taught the dark itself to weep.

And as the frost began to fade,
A dance of light and shadow played.
For even in the coldest night,
The smallest flame can birth the light.
Cadmus May 11
And just like that…

I summoned the courage
To Burn the page
I once folded with trembling care,

It now curls in flame,
a silent flare
of who i was…

Is no longer here.
A reflection on letting go of a version of the self once protected, now transcended.
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