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Literature Text
In these moments, I am brilliance,
shimmering on the back of
a shadow. Swells of light slide nearer;
I lay them to rest.
Eyes dilate beneath their veils to
the mirrored cries of breathing,
of singing a heady soprano
melody. Luminous cones
show their age, battered soft
against a white and callous backdrop.
Time is beautiful because she refuses
to hold, ever pulling beams forward
towards forgetfulness. But this mind will chain her,
in a grave and radiant grasp. She may drag on,
stumbling over herself into oblivion, still
I jealously claim this fraction. I stay.
shimmering on the back of
a shadow. Swells of light slide nearer;
I lay them to rest.
Eyes dilate beneath their veils to
the mirrored cries of breathing,
of singing a heady soprano
melody. Luminous cones
show their age, battered soft
against a white and callous backdrop.
Time is beautiful because she refuses
to hold, ever pulling beams forward
towards forgetfulness. But this mind will chain her,
in a grave and radiant grasp. She may drag on,
stumbling over herself into oblivion, still
I jealously claim this fraction. I stay.
Literature
snowbones
holding my hands over the kettle
the skin on my fingertips peels back,
like dated wallpaper,
like flowers blooming.
they're burning from the inside out,
nails turning to varnish, turning to steam,
bones click-clacking their way out;
spreading like wildfire.
the whistling stops, and
blink
and my fingers are just fingers,
ink stained, bitten nails.
sunlight streams across the kitchen,
my fingers warm and
slightly damp, i trace patterns on
steamed-up windows.
Literature
illuminate my heart
September falls outside his window and the two-story house feels June. Time tilts here, the days canted to the left like the apple tree their grandchildren planted sometime last winter. It hasn't grown much since then, a few leaves on dry branches but no blooming flowers when spring arrived.
Today his fifty years seem like thirty. Sitting up in bed is easier. He doesn't feel as weak as before. The Pacific breeze touches his hair, chills his pale face and he thinks, Maybe Anna and I could drive down to the beachfront today.
He rolls to his side. She's burrowed under the covers, a blue blanketed lump, white hair poking out over dark blue pill
Literature
Older
Time is a lonely bastard child. I know
how it feels.
I explore the spaces inside, moist hollows
where the angels once worked
their mischief. Strange
what you can grow accustomed to. I probe
the old scar tissue: smooth, numb
in places. I imagine I can feel
their shades, tactile afterimages: a zombie
reflex, a longing
for a longing. It pulls
at the center of my chest.
I miss the certainty of need.
I examine new possibilities, take
steps, show interest, craft a proposition,
cut a book deal. I have always been honest,
good
for others, even at my worst. I read. I write.
I observe, offer advice. Business is easy
to come by.
I have my way with w
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The subject might not be spiritual, but the inspiration was. If anyone thinks it's a miscat, I'd gladly take suggestions for gallery change.
Anyway, enjoy my ramblings.
Anyway, enjoy my ramblings.
© 2009 - 2024 phoenixmemory
Comments26
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Beautiful.