Feb 01
essay challenge: Lifeline

Lifeline: A YWP Project of Prose and Trees

Nov 21

A New Hand

It is a long road from brink to brink--
An episode a night, a softly steaming cup to drink steadily from
It is no surprise that once the first apple falls--
far and fast enough to fly--that once the grass is littered with fruit, gaily dancing men and women
procure these blushing children and brand them anew

There is a great loss in those who bore it first, once deals are done and taken from your
hands, borne again in a new grasp, that of an open palm,
keeping you at arm's length instead of tightened clasp

These fingers are loosely curled now, once you reach the end--
there is nothing to be ashamed of, here, nothing waiting for the bending, 
the breaking
Nothing to mend--


Nov 21

A Shame Under The Divine

It is a shame to see--a heart trapped in place by divinity
A shame to continue, to honor the life, to burn the wick, revive the light
A belief is surely, now, conviction, and bred to consume, a fabric within
its brightened plume
Of molted whim and cornered heart, a Goddess cannot spin the Earth, 
bu to her whim, she is given the power--to press and pull on every hour
This is to be a final rhyme--a telling, sweetened by the time, the ruination of a mind,
comes from the floor, not only the sky
Oct 27

The sparrow

Upon my windowsill, this window by the door--a bright sparrow sat, his eyes trained onthe floor 

Beside him, then, the curtains billowed from their perch, joining his eyes by the sill, peering over 
the edge and filling out, the sweetness of air in their girth

This sparrow, now, he stays and sighs and sways,spins his wings through molten gold and their rays 
Oct 27

I catch the lark

I catch the lark within the day
It curves my neck toward the sky
I slip my fingers 'round its neck, 
a looming figure, these of angered while
I shall be reciting these without respite, a turning of will
An age or two has burnt the sky, 
little figures meant to set aflame
This bird, she watches patiently, but catchers, all, claim the same

Oct 11

The corners of the sky were white

The corners of the sky were white—the center of them blue 
I curled my fingers ‘round the edges and bled frost inside them, too 

I watched the sun disappear behind great walls of fog— 
The day belonged to the chill, it seemed, the new morning 
I found the elegance of the lost evening disarming, an unparalleled deity expunged—

I suppose now we know—
We cannot trust new judgments—
We must not be content to end the old—

These changes, not but the growth of flesh and blood, but those that juxtapose—
Of dirt and bark and brine
To connect the world and every wonder—
To feel the coiling cold—
To feel it’s fall, the crests in its rise
Oct 10


I am, as they say, a romantic. I visualize such things in my head constantly, flowers and slow dances and nights spent beneath the glow of one hundred million stars. I play out scenarios in my mind — and have been doing this continuously since I was young, dragging out a particular story for days on end, creating backstories and betrayals and personality traits. I get attached to these characters I create, though I have never written them down — nor written about them — in my life. These beings, who live and breathe inside my skull, a pounding of my imagination set aflame by my willingness to allow it to flourish, are my greatest creation. Pen and paper are thought and muscle tissue, the edges of words scraped against my brain matter.
Oct 03

The Will of the Wind, Part 4

There were many things that Jax had managed to carry herself through--coming back from the dead chief among them--but she had not found a reason to prepare herself for the surprise of seeing a man on the battlefield--on the contrary, her entire body froze up in astonishment, and her eyes widened in their sockets, so large it felt as if they were pushing against her skull.

Not just any man, either. A human man, on the side of the Ocassus. 

The man in the middle of her vision slid his helmet off of his head and threw it to the side, watching Jax with skepticism in his eyes, hand clenching at the sword at his hip. For a moment, both warriors watched each other, eyes connected, armor open, thoughts seemingly exposed, until the booming crash of a large explosion lit up the night with flames and fire. 

Oct 02

The setting sun paints the sky a velvet pink--

Oct 02

Little pebbles will tumble down little hills–

Little pebbles will tumble down little hills–
days will pass while these beings are made,
grown between silt and sand

Made continuous, foreign, and jagged, 
smoothed by time and love, compassion
A being made of rock, of sorts, 
A being made to certain fashion

We may not absorb even a quantum of such change–
we may never see it, and for that, I worry–
For new souls, I'm sure, the days will change, the lights
will turn, a color of uncertain hue 

We may never understand–
Never experience
                  And will we ever feel 
But for your ignorance, I am grateful to
I cannot guess what knowledge would do