whispers, beckoning into invisible arms, huddled. vicious, violent sobs-viscous breathing.

inky black, reaped from your heart. And so I reach for your heart.

Child- inhale,exhale. You grip the frame of the joyful photo. grapple with the facts and return with throbbing cries.

the mothers love you crave is gone, so I let the shadows cradle you, crazily. 

One day the wrenching pain will fade into obscure, obsidian darkness and become obsolete. 

I thought there was a reason eternal and maternal rhymed,

but i went
too
soon.
 

whispers, "i love you."
eyelids close. 
 

 My eyes focus on the hyper, golden creature. It is much smaller than the elves and seems to be female. She flutters around me with her wings, her golden dress cut short on her thighs. Fairies. 
“Oh! Good, you’re awake. I am Salia.” She tilted her head, her short hair releasing itself from its position on her shoulders. “You are human. The Elves sent you to us.”
“Hello.” I mutter. “My name is Asha. I am indeed human.” 
“Salia! The-” A new fairy flew up to Salia. She paused when she saw me. ”Oh my pixie dust! What on earth- the elves, I assume.” Salia nodded.
“Lumbliah.” She said nodding in my direction. 
“Lumbliah? I don’t-”
“It’s her name, dearest.” Salia said to me. 

Hailing petals and bowing to the arched branches,
mouthful of spring air.

Grass creeps up their legs as they sit in the sun.

The pockets of her jeans carry the foil of chocolate kisses, his carry old purple Post-it notes.

Lemonade scented laughs. 
Barefoot as they climb the cherry blossom,
hands cling to knobs of the trunk, nails pass by pink flowers.

He falls down into the green haven of grass and blushing petals, while jumping from a branch. 
Her soft lips break into a smile as she plunges to the ground next to him. 

In all the commotion, out falls a purple sticky note from his pocket, written on it in curly scrawl, "Meet me at the cherry blossom."

We were made for the gods, for petty entertainment.
We were made for the gods, we fight their battles. 

They will laugh their shallow laughs,
watch in amusement of our blood baths. 
We were made for the gods, scuptuted and shaped. 
We died for the gods, in a attempt to escape. 
We were made for the gods, and learned to hate.
but
mortal wars are far worse
disagreement becomes a curse. 
fatalities and crying mothers
all because of hating others. 

human hate. 
​limp on a puppet string, dangling from perpetual power. 

How I wish it would stop. 


 

Do you think

there will ever

be a time

where 

kisses on cheeks,

blowing out birthday candles

and

desks pushed together

will make us say

Remember the pandemic?


 

Perhaps, I underestimated the journey.  Elves. What was I thinking? I run my hand through the stream that mirrors the landscape above. Looking back at the hand that skidded through the water, it isn’t wet at all. Instead, there is a brilliant purple shimmer on my hands. Some sort of powder-or dust. Fairy dust. My thumb meets my forefinger, and rubs the shimmery dust between the two. Oh, they have to be here. 
I wade into the water, attracting all the fairy dust onto the lower half of my body. I hope that they are in the water, or the fairy dust could at least lead me there. I wait. The purple fairy dust has covered some of my legs and entirely engulfed my hands. Slowly, I rise. My legs and hands are elevated the most, the rest of my body reluctantly rises with them. I laugh, almost maniacally. But suddenly the laughter ceases. I am in incredible danger.

soft spoken skin, 
unmatched to the 
horrors of the night.

dirt filled nails,
laughing children
with fruit juice dribbling  down their chins.

marble and gold.
they tease me.
and i will watch 
in envy.
of the queens crown.

tragic endings or slow beginnings haunt me. I do not know what to do.
the good and the bad of the move.
 

I have learned to interpret silence. My mind splutters, on the verge of an idea, and once again disappears into the abyss. An ocean cannot freeze. Sometimes I wish it would. 

Enthralled by mysteries, the intoxicating paradox of my mind brings extreme hilarity. 

Do I strive to become another Daphne, or let this perplexity lead?  

I live in stacks of books, with no more room on the painted bookshelf. White polished furniture built my habitat. My poems are full of obscure imagery. I seem to be a nomad with a single destination.

Iceland engulfs my eyes. Mountain arch brows trace my unspoken thoughts. My wind-nipped face slowly softens as the day disappears. 

shallow breaths are ignored for sometime now. fingers, clenched up, scratching at others. no. 
control, don’t let your emotion subdue you. right now is when your brain should not control your body.muffled curses are silently screamed. ink punctures your mental diary. it overflows.subconscious sirens and hammering heartbeats. sweat forms. right now is when your brain does not control your body.