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Literature Text
shallow summers slid from sallow fingers
sticky like the wax the trees lay low,
for all this self-destruction (sordid somewheres)
we fail to follow through with something strong.
I've never found the sunset bittersweet when I was happy
or the sunrise full of hope when I was not;
(are we born with something missing or
do we learn to want and lose when we grow up?)
fixing concrete shelters takes a little more than sticky fingers
like things that make the sunset start to crawl
the longest days are ones I wish that I'd forgotten
(the shortest are the ones I don't remember; selling songs)
(can we just take each other and forget
what haunts my soul
can you just give me one moment
to fold the map a little more)
or should I try to lose what I've been keeping
this nothing-not that's stopping me from
breathing
just try to halt my heart's incessant beating
and find release in losing this facade.
sticky like the wax the trees lay low,
for all this self-destruction (sordid somewheres)
we fail to follow through with something strong.
I've never found the sunset bittersweet when I was happy
or the sunrise full of hope when I was not;
(are we born with something missing or
do we learn to want and lose when we grow up?)
fixing concrete shelters takes a little more than sticky fingers
like things that make the sunset start to crawl
the longest days are ones I wish that I'd forgotten
(the shortest are the ones I don't remember; selling songs)
(can we just take each other and forget
what haunts my soul
can you just give me one moment
to fold the map a little more)
or should I try to lose what I've been keeping
this nothing-not that's stopping me from
breathing
just try to halt my heart's incessant beating
and find release in losing this facade.
Literature
lightkeeping
As you pick up the lantern in front of you, you find it filled with a busy, buzzing flurry of lights. Somebody stuffed fireflies into this one - not the proper thing at all. You unfasten the latch, open the door; the little bugs stream out gratefully. They bathe the wayside in a faint glow for a moment, then vanish in the pitch-black of the Long Night one by one.
You settle down cross-legged and gently put the empty lantern onto your lap to dream up a star.
Literature
God(l)ess.
My gods have grown stale since you left. How can the saints compare to devas with a thousand arms, a thousand lives, and all this time to waste listening in return for a slice of chilled mango? My saints have always been nameless and unknown, a long line of white-faced men and white-robed women with stories I ought to have learned in school, but I always seemed to miss class for a moth or a bramble or a grazed knee.
Your gods have stories – you painted them across my bed-sheets in the mornings, clicking your bangles and talismans to the beat of beat poetry and monkey tails. Your temple was one piece of carved schist, your idols golden
Literature
immersed
enthralled in fantasy
made of words and paper
flowers unnoticed
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This poem spawned from a single sentence in the novel I'm writing this month for camp nanowrimo. True story.
© 2012 - 2024 creativelycliche
Comments3
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uhm. this is ridiculously beautiful. which is probably why no one has been able to comment.
we're all speechless.
so i'm just going to add this to my favorites now.
yeah. okay.
we're all speechless.
so i'm just going to add this to my favorites now.
yeah. okay.