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G A B R I E L A Jul 2020
A flash followed by a hiss of pain
proceed chronically throughout the day
a moan and despair
the flicker of memory with a mistake
and I imagine my feet moving from the quicksand
yet it keeps pulling me in

Far on the melancholy horizon
with hues of amethyst and sapphire
a single daffodil blooms against the spotlight
I imagine my feet moving from the quicksand
and through a flare of clarity, a dream manifests into truth
echoes of glory pound along with the soft breeze
yet it stops all too sudden
and my fingers brush daffodil solace
all before quicksand swallows the promise of freedom
and keeps pulling me in
a process of forgiveness
G A B R I E L A Aug 2019
White smoke lined cerulean hope
and the train rushed right through
like a shooting star on a dark plain
she squinted and was forced to gaze
when familiar faces stepped onto the train
the train of aspiration mixed with aim
she, the girl of elusive stone
with lively feet glued to the ground
and ticket in hand ready to set free
was forced to yearn but withhold
(a ghost attempting to grasp mass)
as the train dashed right through her soul
and her chest caved in knowing
the train had left with her only a few feet away
G A B R I E L A Jun 2019
Compressed material against dove-like skin
it's iron coated with fire and ice
a faultless vest trained from the best
to reject nefarious activity thrown her way

the tick of the clock breezed by
and her mind forgot the feel
of her petals against the wind,
the jabs of thorns that drew blood,
elation in the form of a smile,
and the cadence of the wheels
as age's stampede never slept

suddenly the sun had risen and fallen
more than a couple of times
and the iron had blended with her skin
dominant silver swirls and cream scrawls
her forsaken emotions dissolved into her soul
they thrashed and fought like wild animals
tried to break free from the vest of fire and ice
she felt the stings of bees in her pores
though iron is too strong
unbroken by the song of the tears that never fell.

A ghost of a feeling brushed iron
a mere tickle in a sea of solidity
yet unfaltering and bulletproof vest
never swayed an inch
round her afflictive chained heart.
G A B R I E L A Apr 2019
Tufts of shamrock lea
tickling the back of my feet
as I my honey orbs
darted across
the meadow of elusive hope.

His smile so proud
of his moves so smooth
the shard pieces of my heart
I threw to apprise him
of the colors of my soul
that began to blend
since the moment I saw him
across the field of flimsy chance.

He swaggered his way
through the obstacles ahead
smirked when he took note
of the flies that hovered above
but not the fawn of honey orbs
that watched him across the field.
G A B R I E L A Apr 2019
Hefty wooden bricks
piling for the sake of fierce
tone that should be molded
into the best of minds.

Brick after brick
she washed her hands
with tender sheer tears
that dribbled into the wall
as a flawed synonym of cement
the hammer palpitating brashly
against the makeshift wall
threatened to abolish and become
a genocide of it's own.

Even when the bricks
shift into the dirt below our feet
a mop will erase the evidence
of her sedulous perseverance
that will never be acknowledged
like the leafs on her tree.
G A B R I E L A Feb 2019
Neon green sparkled through his orbs
like the hope residing in his soul
he stretched his arm
made to grasp it with his hand
but it had vanished like a passing wind
in a desert day of forsaken sand.

Neon green felt the desire
like his heart in deep dire
when the dashing star teased his being
he smiled as if he could finally mean it
didn't feel the light dying through his fingers
leisurely as the clock never stopped ticking.

Neon green extinguished in the blink of an eye
the hours mingled like melting ice
as his ear eavesdropped for the ring of a breath
when yearning hit it's final note
the sound of the end already approached
and it captured him tightly in a net of gold
as it vanished him vehemently from the appalling storm
and left the pieces that nobody saw.
Inspired by The Great Gatsby
G A B R I E L A Jan 2019
Why do we keep moving
when the sky doesn't?

Why do we last so long
when flowers don't?

Why should I sew my lips
when I own the answer?

We question
and the answer always comes back to




Question marks hover over our heads
floating and bumping into each other
like clouds in the sky
never banishing
even when the wind howls.
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