Creative Commons License Fruit of the Muses

In the shadow
Of your absence
My knees buckle
To solidarity.
I am hardly standing.
I hardly am.

The light in your eyes

Has all but shone—

Breaking flecks of gold

And stormy hues—

Placing it all into flowers

That harbor and hoard

Your radiance deep

Beneath the soil—

Into their roots

To tangle, to entwine

Around your bones

When you are gone.

Hot kisses
of a star drowning
in her red,
abysmal hypnosis
melt into skin
through clouds
engulfed with tears,
emptying into a sky
split between contrasts
of sun brightened eyes
and a hand not met
against the window.

Beginnings end
To begin again;
The tide turning
Upon a faith rendered useless.
So unkind, the darkness
Carried in the same hands
That ran so slightly
Over skin—barely touching,
Hardly skimming the surface
Beneath a midnight veil of sheets.
The thought eats through me—
Who are you,
But a soul, nothing
But spilled ink staining
The pages of a journal—
Only touched
When the heart swells
And chokes the mind.

Reflecting everything 
But their significance—
A heart, a home
Of brittle bones
And words unspoken,
Left plastered on the walls—
Are your eyes, slurred
With madness,
And a plea for mine to meet.


Raising mountains upon flesh
Your fingers trace the pulse
Of a heart in rapid fire
Breath wanes, collapsing lungs
Making room to bend
Skin against skin
Until ribs interlock
Until each bated breath
Falls into the same rhythm
Your touch becomes my own
As the dawn becomes
Your warmth and mine—
The flame burning
Sunspots in our eyes

            Hummingbirds often thrummed with sugary beaks, tasting the sweet nectar brought forth by the rain, entranced with the season’s homely grasp.  I could not find myself, as I was lost in someone else.  I was but an empty body in the garden, yet somehow found myself looking around, taking it in.  The ghosts of my troubles escaped me, unraveled the roses until their petals coated the dirt—vermilion remnants decorating the cold, brown soil.  Morning glory crept upward along the side of the house over the years.  At last, they reached the window, blossoming flowers along the sill—sweet-scented and lively.  The marigolds below sighed—with the same warmth that colored them—into my hollowed lungs.  I could breathe again, only to be captivated by the handsome, dark strawberry avens.  Their saucer-like petals doubled over themselves around their yellow-freckled centers, offering hearts to the flitting hummingbirds.

            There was a great oak in the far corner whose branches stretched into the sky.  Its leaves were tiny hands reaching out to gather up the sun, as if to deliver its light to the petunias caught in the oak’s penumbra.  Their flushed color appeared endless like the stars still beaming, though their lights’ homes are but a carcasses of dust.

            The heavens continued to unfold, enveloping my soul, pledged to a heart wrung with hunger for the sky’s kindred spirit.  I was unaware I closed my eyes until I had to open them to see, and when I did I noticed a single white petunia alone in the middle of all the others.  I picked it from the soil.  So pure and white, I plucked its milky petals, sending them flying with the calling breeze—relieving perfection of the pressure of a world trapped in blindness.  When the last petal flew from my fingertips I felt faithful despite my stagnant doubt.  I finally felt full and alive.  I grew familiar with the garden, and thus with myself.

Note: So beautiful, as always.


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

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)

Opaque  by  andbamnan