Thistle and yew
It’s gray and empty in the spot where the feelings go
Calm but sharp like the whispers of a jackal and
Lemonade yellow around the edges.
I can see the spot where the sun could shine through
If the inside wasn’t all mist and rain and thunder
Peppered mornings with thistle and yew
Reflected droplets of Monday mornings in my mind
A treehouse of twisted thoughts, half-truths, and
Imaginary lies.
Peeling whispers from my skin and dropping them
Down the ocean of the drain that leads to nowhere
Washing away the claret and the clear, clear liquid
Of my face and my hands and the spot on my thumbs where
I’ve removed the pale covering and left nothing
Except a hole where my heart should go.
And like all nothings
I’m nothing too
Here in the mirror
The inside all like mist and rain and thunder
Peppered mornings with thistle and yew.
An early night
A cerise afterglow paints a pretty sky
faded into periwinkle blue and a lemony-yellow bloom punctuated by early stars
an ivory moon winking overhead, the taste of winter on one’s lips
breath in the air like a mist
frost forming on crunching grass
fingers chilled as we watch the sun go down
sucking in the cigarette of night to blossom in our hearts.
Blank white canvas
The midnight blue and black of winter’s eve sets in with a chill, like every summer’s been long forgotten—
snow twinkles under the moonlight, reminding me I’m a blank white canvas
like stars all crushed together and placed carefully on the ground
sparkling as if it were dew, or could be, at a different time when I wasn’t so empty.
But now it has made a delicate crust of ivory and faded brown dirt
dancing along the railings and amid dead gardens
too early to stay, but not too early to crisp and crunch the crimson and orange and lemon-colored leaves hanging from the branches
making the season change overnight from a multicolored palette
to a frozen playground of twirling flakes and whistling wind that sinks into my bones.
Stories grow best when shared.
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