Creative Writing
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If our lovewas not the candle, undyingin the fog of a daywe shared cups of tears,wine from our veins,we will be rebuildingthe sinking vessel. One buried lookin the eyes that give offexact radiances, with the sunI can part from, withoutglancing back.If our love never was,I could dream, to envision,even without your oarsto move this life.…
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To the eyes, to the moonlit part of earthen eyelids that winter shut, that night had hid beneath where bones are forming trails in the scattered dirt. Life above, pages below written in the earliest hour, laid in the latest light. A soldier’s cross, a mother’s woe, while faces, the same in glance to what…
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She runs, crawlsthe same pace as her infantthat starves in her hand.Counting the scarsembedded in the earth,where faces sink in their tears,where sicknessis a choir’s song. Counting the stretcheseither on a furthering roador this mother’s belly.Naming the markswhere a child escapedeither from heror from its home. A funeral, with the leavesleftover from a resented autumn.Much…
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When will the lion’s jawsclose to the stench of a wound,while a mother’s arms are aflamefor the warmth of her child? While the soldier prayswhere the night stands still,in the sight of knees against sand,there are fatherswho grace the motherland. Bullets on paper,bombs to heat the shelter.Loneliness revisits the eyes,apart from unificationto the outskirts of…
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In the dark, these eyes are shut to gray. Inside stained hearts, there is a weight to wield on marches, where hands shield – faces, from the rain. Dirges and dirt, funerals and broken vows to guard against pain. Disconnect me, reconnect belief – in the vivid hurt. All that I grow in gardens of…
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Beneath, where Inotice where you kneel.I am notin your furled direction.I have sleptas long as you. Time kept us movingin the direction of tidal waves. Are you enamoredfor the fields, for siresstrong in the fire? Lust beneath your fingernails.You claw without fleshto warm you. A petal,to your nakednesswhere all has settledwith the sores,the stains, –…
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First of the drybeneath the pale complexionof a beautiful moon,you crywith an ocean to displacefrom a heart, to flood the earth. First to startyour journey to the depths.Last to be birthedas the still-life, for the sunrise. The first of many fogsto lift to your eyes. The last of all those walksto the cliffs,to toss your…
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We despairwhen the autumn tree cannotreturn its fallen leavesback to the cradles resting on its boughs.For it is likethe clouds unable to retrieve snow nor rain,the dandelion unable to returnthe lost seeds. It is all likea heart that cannot return back lovewhen it was sold to a stranger’s hands. It is too much likethe faces…
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A turnstile, gates unopened.Legs wide shut,fused in slender depictionto the fertile fields. Fertile flowers connectedwith unmatched reverieto the sun-droplets,the fires in the spaces untouched,most unexplored. Eyesfor a time in wanderlust.Romance, scattering the scarlet dusttowards a lost entrance.Arms for the form,the concealment to the onetoo artful to be everyone’s feast. Wide and entertaining. Loving and bewildering.…
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There was, to a sea where no sun chooses to rise, a morbid fascination with life. With the hope, with the face that would be shown in the reflection upon the waves; this was where someone did look upon. From his balcony, all he ever saw was reflections. Reflection of stars, of the moon, and…
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Sounds: alarm, orthe forest that burnsto a gentle wind,a breath of your bygone age. Stone, heavy,though the winds will break it.Release tears. A rock.Close connectionthat brings grace to open space.Were you never embraced? My love, – I see where you walked,danced upon the ruins,the wet ashes. Trickling streams,numbing melodies.A heart, a sad little rhythmthat fadeswith…
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Curtains pulled downto reveal brick, to reveal what’s sick.Two eyes – blinds,no purpose to tear awayat what is gone into yesterday. Tomorrow is the new season,yet all is dark. Life behind,death belowwith all the sounds in this heartechoing from stone walls. No blood, no floodto stop with fingers at the eyes.I keep calling – while…
Modern Romanticism 