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Literature Text
there is no faith in the blanks inside your asterisks,
just failures like your pound sign censors -
punctuated by the loss of landmarks but
thriving in redaction, these fraying strings,
these summer suns still making us so sharp:
rapid elevation management;
god, damn these dreams for being (real) enough
just failures like your pound sign censors -
punctuated by the loss of landmarks but
thriving in redaction, these fraying strings,
these summer suns still making us so sharp:
rapid elevation management;
god, damn these dreams for being (real) enough
Literature
Directionality
I kiss the forehead of another dream,
cast away for different lives--
all my fields of green
seen through shutters
of different lenses, different eyes
that belong to me a half-step left
of the one I stand mirroring today.
These reveries--
revered to me;
refused of me,
refused by me.
Reflections of things
confused with me,
things yet to be seen.
When I die,
will I look back at trails I've cast,
branching worn, winding over grass,
a tree of life carved in the earth
by my unknowing feet?
Even better,
can I linger
over every second maybe,
reveal lives all hidden to me as I rise,
rise past the sum of every choice
and every right-hand
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
Who Put the Eggs There?
Mama Hen did not usually make much noise, but this morning she clucked so loud that she woke the entire house up. Papa Rooster was the first to come into the kitchen, where his wife stood wide-eyed in front of the fridge. It was still early in the morning, even for chickens, as Papa Rooster had only finished cock-a-doodle-dooing ten minutes ago.
He had no idea what could’ve caused such a ruckus, “What is it, my darling?”
Mama Hen clucked again, pointing her wings frantically at the opened fridge, “Who put the eggs there?”
Sure enough, Papa Rooster saw half a dozen of newly laid eggs lining the fridge’s s
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one of those 'I'm almost asleep but if I don't get up right now there's now way I'll remember what I'm thinking' poems
© 2014 - 2024 creativelycliche
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I love the first and last lines. This is great! I'm glad you got out of bed to write it.