sara Jun 5
I'm transparent like a window
but I'm prone to keeping curtains closed
to cover up the nudity of
my youthful, aching soul.

I used to be promiscuous;
my essence on my sleeve.
a charming laugh; a crystal glass
from which many a fool drew drink.

A chalice of life;
warm like cinnamon wine,
soft like angel's delight.
Beheld by every eye.

But it never felt right;
I was smoke off a fire
yet still smouldering coal.
Just a young, beautiful

byproduct of desire.
There's no smoke without fire.
Although, I tried to fan it cool;
the flames ran only wilder.

But as the old wind blows, it seems
a withered tree still grows new leaves.
A dandelion spreads its seeds
but they lie far away from me.

Now I move transcluently-
ultraviolet invisible ink-
I speak in soothing whispers;
they travel further than you'd think.
Iridescence is things seemingly changing colour on their own- I think we all have the power to grow and move away from our pasts.

I love how fire is a destructive yet cleansing force.
I've returned to this place, but not how I had hoped
The walls peeling, ceilings drip, floorboards curved and sloped
Mildew spreads around corners and shadows swallow light
Thoughts creep in like whispers, forcing me to write
They're in my head again, the infestations swell
Clawing at my eyelids, the night escapes. Oh well
Perhaps I am the intruder
I left this place to rot
Yet, it's the one who evicted me
It is I who I forgot
I recalled the smell of junipers warming in the sun,
Or maybe mice nesting under the cupboard.
Or bleached linen hung out by Mum,
Reminds me of something about Dad from long ago,
You ask me…to say if it was gin;
There are things I can’t tell you, Son.
Some people think that it’s a sin;
So just use your imagination.

Another time I smelled crushed daisies of
The housemaids, I remember from Kleßheim.
Thunderstorms rolled down from the Alps at night,
Then turned at morning into clarified, buttered sun.
They remind me of someone’s blonde hair,
I just can’t tell you when or where,
So use your imagination.

Scent is the most potent mnemonic,
Triggering mystical cells inside,
Creating a stream of biophotonics,
Rapture returns in histrionics,
Tracking things from skin and hair,
To lips and eyes, to a groan, an intrigued stare.
Things we can never tell another, even if
He or she or they were there
What happened in those brilliant days?
Only imagination can say.

Crystal hanging in the window at nine o’clock,
Rays strike the glass, opening up the past.
Before me spreads a wide, green lawn,
Ladies and lords stroll with their finery on.
I sit and watch, while the procession advances,
Tricornes doffed and stays undone in dances.
Until the satin, silk and brocades lie on the ground,
Gavotte kisses become tender, sensual rounds
And naked, youth flees into woods.
And everything is happening;
Everything is good.
This is about memory, predominantly smell, how much we remember and what is only guessed at. The last part is about memories of a past life triggered by light in a prism.
I hear the voices behind me calling my name.
I turn to look, but the voices vanish.

I hear the voices when I walk through the canteen for lunch.
But I never ever find the source.

Do you want to know what I hear?

I hear the secrets I've told one person.
I hear the embarrassment I've put on myself.
I hear the pain and suffering I've had to deal with.
I hear my name slandered every turn I make.

But the worst of it all, I've heard that it all came from you.
You talk to me like a friend,
But in reality, behind my back -

You're a monster waiting to devour me.
A monster who slanders my name.
A monster who spreads my secrets.
A monster who I thought was my FRIEND turns out to be the same person stabbing me in the back.

What have I ever done to you to deserve such treatment?

I am cross with you,
but I won't fight back.
Because when I do, I'd be the very monster that you are.

Tell me more, tell me more.
Tell me more of your lies.
Lie to my face and say it with a coy smile.

In the end of the day, you are nothing but an insecure little child who needs attention.

I will no longer give you that attention.
Lie to me some more,
I'll hear you, but never listen.
I write
because I feel-
more intensely
when wounds
I need to heal
life cares not
whether it embitters
or trips every heel

human tears
are mirrored
in words
the litany
of sorrowful years
like an epidemic
but to despair
and defeat
I'll never yield

my poems
shall be my shield
I know
living is never*
as easy as
walking through a field
* a Russian saying

— The End —