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Literature Text
when you go, leave the light on.
your smirk is amused-
scared of the dark?
but it’s not the darkness itself
that injects fear
into me—
when it’s pitch black
the what-ifs
and the not-knowing
give the pretense
of safety-
goose-bumps rise to the occasion,
shivers grab their passports,
travel to lands far down
my spine.
the possibility of what could be
is enough to make
my heart palpitate
to speeds not known
to any cardiologist-
can’t breathe, can’t speak,
can’t scream.
rubies dancing on silent toes-
sharp and jagged and
encrusted with the whispers
and grabbing a rope and
tying and
crying and pulling
in all directions and-
tried to grab the voices today,
but it didn’t work.
your smirk is amused-
scared of the dark?
but it’s not the darkness itself
that injects fear
into me—
when it’s pitch black
the what-ifs
and the not-knowing
give the pretense
of safety-
goose-bumps rise to the occasion,
shivers grab their passports,
travel to lands far down
my spine.
the possibility of what could be
is enough to make
my heart palpitate
to speeds not known
to any cardiologist-
can’t breathe, can’t speak,
can’t scream.
rubies dancing on silent toes-
sharp and jagged and
encrusted with the whispers
and grabbing a rope and
tying and
crying and pulling
in all directions and-
but it didn’t work.
Literature
Reorient
I don't need to self-abandon To chase some dream of peace with you. You will find your peace At your own pace, or not. I will never know peace, Unless I stop running And sit here, alone, with me.
Literature
Angles of Light
That window which you look through Seems heavy, but the eyes You use to look with, set alight Each thing a thousand ways: Is dawn a bright mosaic? A bird in a gold tree? Disaster or a masterful Display of artistry?
Literature
For Nice.
A strong Oak stands alone amid the hedgerow. Watching over this season's final yield of wheat. The last stage of the crop rotation. No more than a hardy grass, yet sufficient sustenance no less, for those that tend to the field. I note a ring of scarlet poppies circling the wheat. A blood-stain border, soaking the outer edges of the field. Speckled also, in amongst the crop, in that same sporadic pattern seen in blood splatter. A metaphor for the sacrifices made in ensuring that the village stays fed perhaps? Or perhaps, an aesthetic. Planted by the farm hand with little to no particular reasoning, other than just, well, for nice. The dog grows impatient, pulling at his lead as though to say that sometimes things just are, that I ought not to ponder on them for too long, lest I rob them of their inherent beauty. I scratch him behind the ears in agreeance. "good boy, lets get you home".
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Comments9
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Oh, this is spine-shiveringly gorgeous