Fruit of the Muses

Note: So beautiful, as always.

aswiftsunset:

How the tree in the winter longs for her leaves,
as the ice collects on her branches
and frosts her with a pain
of loneliness, a pang
for her love to return,
this is how I find myself
when I remember
you.

The sun shall return
and with it life bring,
but I shall remained submerged beneath
the blankets where your breath still lingers,
memorising the words
of the books into which
we pressed the reddest leaves,
the remnants of our favourite tree.

I sit by her before sunrise
and sing her songs
of your unending smile,
the one that could make
an angel weep.
She understands the sting
of water slipping through her fingers,
as she yearned to drink it
before it ran out.

The dent at the centre of my palms
will always be my hollow nightmare,
it shall remain my spirit’s
mourning cry.
The spring will return her leaves to her,
but it shall never comfort me.

(via evanescentroses-deactivated2013)

Morning hands against my eyes.
I hear her crying, listening to the melody—
The gentle serenade of time
Running by again and again. 
Her heart beats in rhythm with the sea
That carries you like song carries color,
Sparking up the tide in your smile.
Fog rolled off the grass, like your spine
From the quilt—leaving ephemeral scars
Upon the skin as you laced your boots
With fingers accustomed too raising mountains.
She wonders if you can hear this song too,
The chorus of the waiting, silver moon
Shining through the smudge covered window;
Through the bed sheet sails align with the bow.
Can you hear her croon, a lark balanced between
You and her and the gap in the fence of melancholy—
That bitter taste stinging your throat 
As the words abandoned shudder 
In the absence of speech.
Prayer cannot heal the loss, 
As the sky will split blue,
Much like afternoons spent caked in dirt.
Her hair reached her hips and flickered your vision
With the motion of the tire swing 
Hanging from the great oak.
Laughter stains where grief has been,
Creating a stagnant ache—it only hurts to touch—
These things that love can’t cure.

Painted skies mask grief
Sauntering behind hapless eyes
Of amber—rolling, rolling
Waves, regretfully permissive
To a touch that never lasts
Long enough for Nightingale’s ballad—
Sweetly harrowing against our hearts,
As if they weren’t beating fast enough.

(via flightedd)

(via flightedd)

a-g-a-n:

http://flightedd.tumblr.com/

You see my weakness

and I spend my time trying to want to cry.

When I fall, I hate you—

I hate you and continue to hate you

because these days have turned rigid, we sit

in straight-backed chairs. I look at you,

but my vision is words, words I’d like to say.

Catch my blindness. Pull these words brimming over my eyelids

because I can’t say them. Read them and catch my blindness.

rex-ybanez:

Autumn ash whitens to snow. Those days
Remembered on ferris wheels or carousels
keep the imagination’s gears turning, whether
the teeth of each cog rubs the wrong way, or
if the wrong creases and folds destroy
an origami swan’s grace: the carousel
of our humanity’s entropy. No matter
how much one looks at a clock
time will wave its hands, signaling
life is passing through, and we should pass, too.
Three centimeters per second a flake falls
from Heaven, cast below on roads ridden
with black ice. There’s no need to punish
yourself by not wearing a coat when you go
outside—nature’s only natural. Embrace it.

-RY

(via rex-ybanez-deactivated20130322)

purgatorypoetry:

Swallowing the truth
I chew, and chew
And chew
Through the rhetoric –
Old and new
My intestines
Swollen
My understanding
Stolen
From myself
By myself
And my insatiable appetite
(nom-nom-Namaste)
I bow to you
Bidding adieu
Chewing the truth
And all it entails
Simply a snake
Swallowing its tail

I love it. :)

Miserable mouths offend,
pretending to shoulder the blacking tongue,
casually waning in the beginning of sound.
The beast rises out of the water,
seats itself in the minds of our reflections.
He tips his hat to the hours’ attempt at comfort,
jerking loose a delight lost in the pine needles
once trampled by our running feet.
What are we now, but half-severed hearts
without a home, or the growls drowning
the stairs. The beast winces with a wink;
What have we become?

I brace myself
with images of
broken glass—barbed
praises of a dogged
resentment. (Eyes reflecting
back, too vulnerable to meet)
Believe in this surfaced calm,
punctured by the measure of
midnight—ashes of sleep,
shifting under the winds of
passing dreams, too alive
for this canvas soul—bleached
white, shadowed gray—
composing symphonies
to still shaky hands,
too anxious to hold—a
bitter-sweet melody, vouching
for this stranger in my mind,
pleading for asylum
beneath the fractured pulse—
Heart, you have no home.

Bask in your stolen ray
of the sun, saved for a
day spent on the edge
of your seat. Forget the
misgivings of the sky,
the rain falling rampant
at your feet, flooding
steps taken in stride,
attempting to keep up
with time, and her
desperate measures
on a diaphanous heart,
frail and unguarded,
left out to rot in the heat
of this moment—passing.