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Literature Text
By the sea there was
precariously balanced,
our house on the rocks,
built with a fireplace
too damp to light.
Daddy, he took that
ugly, weatherworn pack
down from the dusty peg
on the back of the door.
With curls falling into our faces,
and blue eyes wet with salt,
we begged him to stay,
but Daddy, he said there was
salt in his veins,
and nothing on land could satisfy.
He patted our heads with big dry hands
and left with dry, dry eyes, said
he’d write but he didn’t take ink
and paper molds.
And we stood on the shore,
feeling the tide pooling in our
best leather boots,
watching the ship
drift away towards that endless horizon,
growing ever smaller.
precariously balanced,
our house on the rocks,
built with a fireplace
too damp to light.
Daddy, he took that
ugly, weatherworn pack
down from the dusty peg
on the back of the door.
With curls falling into our faces,
and blue eyes wet with salt,
we begged him to stay,
but Daddy, he said there was
salt in his veins,
and nothing on land could satisfy.
He patted our heads with big dry hands
and left with dry, dry eyes, said
he’d write but he didn’t take ink
and paper molds.
And we stood on the shore,
feeling the tide pooling in our
best leather boots,
watching the ship
drift away towards that endless horizon,
growing ever smaller.
Literature
this is the night .collab
the entire sky felt too heavy
so it sunk to its knees
begging for relief
for the emptiness
that always follows the pain
numbness in place of agony.
this is the time of dying suns
that donate brilliant colours to the sky
for those who admire the deep red vistas
and feel the end of another lonely day.
hot shock to the system,
this is sunlight
breaking your body
with unbending hands,
the heaviest hit
hurting even the hollows
between your bones,
this is the time that shadows grow
scurrying and juvenile in their footholds,
the newfound cracks and crevices
where dying light has lost its strength.
the wind has birthed us
tornad
Literature
what do i do when i .collab
the rain washes everything
but the love
from my skin,
imprinted as though
by fingers, sore like sand.
your fingers carved
love, fashioning in the
bruises. you formed welts
that rise as sand dunes.
you took my waxen skin
as a canvas and painted
it with your music
there are ten thousand songs
to which i cannot listen
because you left your lips in
their rhythms
the few melodies that had
been mine, you
stole away like breath,
wrenched from my
wavering throat.
there is nothing of me
that you have left untouched.
Literature
Song for Sienna
He watched her dancing to his song, her small, slender form no longer the graceful child-ballerina he had fallen in love with in their college years, when he aspired to philharmonic fame, and she to the world's brightest stages. It was this woman-child he had envisioned while writing the joyful piece, so many years ago, when the very air surrounding them had tasted of spring and innocence, when there had been no patches of needle-scars to mar her skin, no brokenness to halt her movements. When her lips had still held their secret kiss and her smile lacked the sad knowing that leaked from her eyes every now and again when he held her.
She dan
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Comments4
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This was absolutely lovely and also heart-wrenching. I love a poem that not only leaves an emotional impression but a story, a story that will call to the reader as the sea calls to the father. 