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It was a blurry reflection I saw in the clouds,
it was clear in the sky and as if I was facing my own body —
my legs can barely walk, my hands were trembling
and I can only open my mouth to breathe.

Though there are birds who prey on me, my wings have kept me on guard
and I stood still, alone, with my legs broken
and of little faith.

The world bestowed upon me was ruthless for someone as dreamy and a little in love as me —
I wish that sometimes I can be as hard as a rock,
so the world can see how cruel I am to her
and give me something that I can call a spark of joy.

I have beheaded myself from having to only daydream about falling in love, I have disconnected the veins flowing around my heart —
so it won't feel anything, but even the day sets down and night comes up,
I would still be in love and be of little faith, that I, part of a million particles living in on this earth — can still be held by a man whom I hold on so dearly.

Maybe if I would be less cruel to myself and nice to hard rocks, he will find me and I can walk again.
Maybe my heart that was made of soft cotton easy to be pulled by can be colorful like the blue sky,
and my face can mirror back the clouds' reflection —
and my hands can touch the end fur of the trees dancing when they see me in love wholly and less ruthless.

Maybe if I say maybe now, I can be held like I am a precious gem in his eyes and the birds won't be my enemies anymore,
they will sing wedding bells' songs and I'd smile in regards,
I will strum my harp and the only thing I can get by at the end of the day was his smile,
and that will build my little faith, and I will feel the love again, the once daydreamer, has now fulfilled her reality.

And I am back again in writing these, for myself while I continue to work and I sit here — in front of my desktop waiting for my reveries to come to life.
Writing from the perspective of Ruth.
Been a while since I last posted. Hope everyone is doing okay.
yet another quiet reverie
precursor for a life forgotten
snatched away like the dreams I never had
of lush green valleys around the mansions,
fancying a meal of venison
in a clandestine shade of night
sparkling wine was a flavour of few,
lying awake at night
with a lover by my side

raucous laughter coming from all around
kind behaviour of the family makes you astound,
as a whole rather than a half
all together cherishing your art

lives were made and ruined in the night,
take it from an artist for losing everything in sight

a kleptomaniac of not just thoughts but words to boot,
fishing for inspiration while straightening my suit

scrambling for meaning even in the delusions,
living in denial rather than waking up from illusions.
Maybe in my dreams, I'm an artist.
owls in willow trees
saddest of images to me


owls in willow trees
softened broken limbs in me


owls in willow trees
let mossy scars all over me


owls in willow trees
night windows time in me


owls in willow trees
now have nothing to do with me


owls in willow trees
where I have been arrives in me


owls in willow trees
more than many of each of me


owls in willow trees
past beyond memory me


owls in willow trees
now there is enough of me
I am trapped within this reverie of revived memories; of when you were by my side.

The warmth of dawn feels as though a cruel, albeit gentle lie. My Sun...set, tis that day, when you left me with why.

Why?

Why... couldn't I make you stay? Why does everything I grasp tightly... still slip away?
These thoughts of you from a cage, that keep all logic and reason, within gaze; though beyond embrace.
Summer Oct 2020
Lost to us were the
bright and sunny days in the 60s,
lazy afternoons & the pristine scent of grass after rain,
all that matters is invisible to our naked eye.

Time is the bottle
we cram memories with &
fleeting is our being ****** into an unprepared tomorrow,
drowning in the long-gone reverie of yesterday

Nostalgia is the sweet lie we murmured, the small
cloud of dust suspended in the air &
the smoke rings spiralled toward
a December night sky.

Forgotten dreams & present madness is a
scratched vinyl record stuck in the fissure of time;
crackling noise muffling our sighs —
Gone, they say, gone.
I'm feeling a bit weird recently, like I'm longing for something I have never experienced, missing old days before I was even born.
Old days old days, why are they always better than the present?
Summer Oct 2020
Solace is the
worn-out blue shoes and
quiet poignance of last night's dream;
an old conversation putting on loop —
a forgotten cascade tape;
morning light flitting through faded curtains,
hand holding a cup of sour coffee,
freshly brewed from loneliness chanting
stay, stay with me


Despair, old friend
visits after a dinner of pasta
blue shoes hitting pavement
passing the lanes of green and grey,
strolling around the meadow where
Gentian flowers glisten in full bloom
clouds wailing, pelting tears on
chilled cheeks, purple fingers shaking —
go home, go home


Forlorn,
distant beckoning lights,
swaying lanterns overhead saying
come, come to us
white sand on a winter shore where
you wrote my name,
next to a set of baby prints
before the waves came
and lapped them away murmuring
no more, no more


Sojourn,
running barefoot
down empty streets, crescent moon chasing
my back, scattering thoughts on the way
pine trees bending, cobblestone grumbling
at the scarlet sky, dancing with
your ghost one last time, whispering
farewell, farewell
I was having a particularly difficult day since I learned of my friend's suicidal thought the night before. I couldn't sleep. And I want to seek solace, though I know not where to find it. Seeing her like this reminds me of my old self — those dark days when loneliness twisted my insides and everything was just screaming and screaming and I couldn’t get out of my own skin. I am not even sure, sometimes, if we could truly be healed, for I still struggle with the same monster every day.
Again, please find me on instagram if you like my content, your support would mean the world to me. It's hard to continue sometimes
Spriha Kant Oct 2020
For concealing myself from the wicked eyes of melancholy , I tightly hug reverie and melt into its fragrance on intertwining with it as a twinkling soul.
clementine Sep 2020
fairy floss skies and white beaches surrounded by azure seas, saw you with your charcoal hair blown by the wind. your muscular arms wrapped around me and kissed the tips of my fingers. your voice drew me like how a pollen draws a butterfly and said i'll be your forever horizon. then, someone once asked me why am i always lost in my cerulean reveries. i told them, perhaps, reality aches.

under the furls of wavering clouds, all i see is that untouched stare. untouched feeling of something magical. tried to reach you but suddenly you turned into a flurry of snow. snowflakes, just like dreams, beautiful but falls down and melts. i just want you to find me, to fill these gaps betwixt this void in my heart.

"but you're just a fantasy, a fruit of my imagination."
"but you're just a fantasy, a fruit of my imagination."
"but you're just a fantasy, a fruit of my imagination."

no more fantasies and no more lovesick daydreams, gotta face reality but i'm afraid. afraid to touch the tips of the authenticity of love. lost and confused. i don't know what to do. perhaps, i'm gonna let it come to me once again.

gently whispering enchanting spells to my dreamy ears, bringing me to the majestic feathery silk of flowers. putting me into a cavernous sweet slumber. yes, drown me again.

"you'll never be a forgotten reverie."
"you'll never be a forgotten reverie."
"you'll never be a forgotten reverie."
still lost
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