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Literature Text
you wash over me like seasons.
i never quite know which will be coming next
last night you were thunder and lightening
and you left my lips tingling
with water stuck in the spaces between thoughts.
i still can't quite shake you
and the water marks have stained up my legs
and they're getting higher each time
you come raging over.
i never quite know which will be coming next
last night you were thunder and lightening
and you left my lips tingling
with water stuck in the spaces between thoughts.
i still can't quite shake you
and the water marks have stained up my legs
and they're getting higher each time
you come raging over.
Literature
Storming
i. Summer rain fingers
quietly trickle down cheek
bones and window panes.
ii. Eyes darken into
shadows until morning light;
the tempest remains.
Literature
thyroidal cartilage
i held a bird between my hands,
swallow's throat twitching in laryngeal spasms.
when i whispered gently,
lips millimeters from its ear,
'you are mine; there is nothing you can do'
it struggled, beak clicking like talon-fingernails on porcelain
i didn't mean to let it free, i swear.
it beat me back with a single shining look;
beaded gaze bruising, breaking capillaries and
bringing blood to the surface.
i would have gotten a black eye if i wasn't careful.
i wasn't.
careful, i mean. i was never careful.
with mirrored eyes i watched it fly,
wings beating in time to my heart.
my breath was a cloud of smoke,
droplets condensing
Literature
stranger
you came clinging to the grace of a summer storm's
underbreath, came cold hands and tired eyes
and a bruised lip i'd longed to kiss
when you stumbled on night listing
too far to the left
cross my thistledown garden by old dusks
that wilt between, i'll keep my door open:
your lady in sepia doesn't live here, only
the ghosts and i -- and Grandmother,
in the far-between wanders when she can
remember --
but i've a place where you can
lay your wayworn bones to dry, and
if morning should come calling, i'll not
tell her where you sleep. and stayed awhile.
Suggested Collections
prompt one: in the storm.
starting now cause its better than writing an essay.
starting now cause its better than writing an essay.
© 2012 - 2024 ohsparrowsong
Comments5
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well, actually in this case, mother nature*