Sep 15
isabelle's picture

worldly

You are not of this planet,

though blue-water veins snake your throat,

and thick pearly marrow fills you brittle bones,

and thin jelly leaves cover your eyes,

your heart has not pumped blood in a century.

You are trapped under the ice,

in between this world and the next,

I wonder if you can still feel your hands?

if you can still taste salty thin mastic?

spirit crawls under your skin,

cling film to the bone,

does your rotten apple breath still smoke?

skinny doll arms wrap you in satin,

tucking in the sheets one last time,

a cherry cough syrup kiss to send you off,

buried six feet under the frosty grass,

you’re soon to freeze over,

like a tragic figurine dumped in the arctic sea.

 
Aug 29
isabelle's picture

s p a c e

Everysecondidriftclosertotheendtothe e d g e-
The universe
The galaxy
The stars 
The moon
This, the mortals’ choir
slicker than the siren’s song
for eternities of voices are
singing, all at once
Beckon! Beckon!
an orchestra of dying worlds
Beautiful! Beautiful!
static in a silent haze
graze a finger
against the sun
and sing along, 
f r e e

 
Aug 29
isabelle's picture

s p a c e

Everysecondidriftclosertotheendtothe e d g e-
The universe
The galaxy
The stars 
The moon
This, the mortals’ choir
slicker than the siren’s song
for eternities of voices are
singing, all at once
Beckon! Beckon!
an orchestra of dying worlds
Beautiful! Beautiful!
static in a silent haze
graze a finger
against the sun
and sing along, 
f r e e

 
Aug 29
isabelle's picture

s p a c e

Everysecondidriftclosertotheendtothe e d g e-
The universe
The galaxy
The stars 
The moon
This, the mortals’ choir
slicker than the siren’s song
for eternities of voices are
singing, all at once
Beckon! Beckon!
an orchestra of dying worlds
Beautiful! Beautiful!
static in a silent haze
graze a finger
against the sun
and sing along, 
f r e e

 
Aug 23
isabelle's picture

burnouts of my generation

I

Rain pours from the gutters, seeping over the edges of your consciousnesses,

enter, smoke filled daze and oppression filled days,

you are not alone in your mourning, we all cry for our fathers to return home with the good news,

out here we bust our asses for a shrine, we pray for memorium, we cry for recognition and we

receive only a shadow of former hope,

enumerations of goodwill overtake anyone who opposes the system set in place for the

prosperity of Generation Z,

gravestones cause no tears from the steeled bones of our youth,

though yours and mine will weep if the ribbons of our participation are not hung on the winners

wall for the world to applaud the success of attempted suicide,

driven by maddened tyrants of worldly desires and extra-terrestrial hope of a bright future lined
Aug 23
isabelle's picture

playground

there is quiet

where there most certainly

should not be

quiet.

a swingset burns

into my thigh

cold

cold

cold

my legs are up

somewhere

trying to touch

the sun

the stars

the moon

to feel something

feel anything

or maybe taste it

cold

cold

cold

feel pain

skinned knees

hot tears

‘you should have been

more careful’

but what if the pain

is what i wanted

all along?

higher the swing goes

almost reaching

the edge of the universe

scorching my lungs

the night sky bites

cold

cold

cold

if i let go

would the wind

bring me back?

to innocent laughter
Jun 14
isabelle's picture

clock of the town

tick
tick
tick
tick


every second
i drift closer 
into sleep
the clock on the wall
ticks 
and awakes me.
the snow swirls
listlessly outside
freshining the earth
preparing it for spring.
the clock is not 
like the one 
from the old house
back in the city.
this clock reads
2:54
as i wonder
how i ended up
here in this town
on this 
mothball eaten 
blue couch
waiting for morning 
when i can escape
the infinite ticking.