A fond insect hovering around your shoulder. I like Kafka, in case you're wondering.
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Latest Posts by lacexleaves - Page 2
I am blankness and emptiness personified. Everything falls, flows, into the empty recesses of the soul and shapes and wears it away with its continuous current. ‘I talk to god but the sky is empty’. Blue, beautiful melancholy. The overhead lamp casting shadows of disarrayed hair on the page I write upon. I stretch my hand outwards and upwards, and I grasp solitude with a clenched fist.
smokeinsilence / sightofsea / young love by bts / nizar qabbani / abeba birhane / the waves by virginia woolf / franz kafka letters to milena / ratsandlilies.art / the butterflys burden by mahmoud darwish / underneath the stars by mariah carey
When Mahmoud Darwish said, "A University degree, four books and hundereds of articles and I still make mistakes when reading. You wrote me 'good morning' and I read it as 'I love you'."
Limerence is a word i have been looking for for a long time.
April 13,
Islets of grey amidst a sea of coral and azure. I could breathe in the beauty of the evening and spend a lifetime in its transitions from russet and gold to the dimness of twilight. Poetry, happiness and peace are in the air for those who care. Beautiful. Beautiful. I can’t repeat it enough times. I am lost and found again. Redemption is sweet.
The lizard scurries back into its hole, as the sky above is wedded in a unison of coral and blue. The procession is clouded by a wreath of shadow, pockets of light gathering to pay homage to the departed. ‘Rainbow dreams’ call to be found.
In the incomprehensible maze of personhood, somewhere in me there is a tangle whose causal knot is you.
Embracing romanticism, it is the holiday spirit!
Blue skies-embers of sunset-a little pink butterfly blown somewhere against its will. Reminds me of someone can’t remember who.
2022-06-18
Hydrangea
Canon EOS R3 + RF50mm f1.2L
Instagram | hwantastic79vivid
Finalities
My hands have grown tired of writing about you Though the scars long since have faded into skin Smooth, edge-less, no longer promising red, A mother's daughter through out and through in.
Sleep is less tiresome, and all my work once done Leaves me fiddling with spare hours at the table, Twisting them in and out of a ring that shines on My fourth finger - chipped from the old fable Where the kindest doves would nip down at the Lover who wore your shoes, and drive her out Barefoot into the night - where you only yesterday Curled up under, melting tears into silent clout.
But there, it is a fable other hands have written, An embrace where other shoulders found shelter, And many others yet found tranquilled lethe. Mine is not a story foretold, perhaps for the better.
It has been very long.
Perhaps the lack of a proper Farewell kept me from exiting the scene definitely, so here I am, properly clad in mourning white, clutching at a handkerchief and a bouquet of marigolds. Marigolds in our country are worn in the hair and as necklaces by the bride. Who am I being given away to? From where I stand, it looks like a pyre, where one is burnt with her dead lover. I began to write for you, dearest, and so I shall stop for you, for you are gone. Other fingers now are exploring the crook in your smile, the scar on your hip. Other hands hold yours as you gaze into the deathly moon on quiet summer nights. Other songs nest in your head, ones you and her share.
And here, here I am. Pinning myself to every chord you ever sang to me, but never will once again.
I shall not love again.
The invisible ropes of twilight cling gently to the new dawn, the gates of heaven are barred. “Exile is sweet”, uttered the wind. “For whom?” “Everybody”, she answers with a smile. “Liberty”, she mused, “what is it…?”Hesitation. Tentative reply. “Freedom to call your spirit your own.” “And how is it to be obtained?” Silence. “ Answer me young woman, how is one to go about purchasing liberty?” Murmurs. “I do not think you can.”Wonder. “Nature”, she suddenly said, “The answer to be found in nature, is it not?” Uncertainty. “Perhaps” “Are fetters to be hailed?”, she presses. Quick answer. “No” Laughter. “Break them then” Perplexed. “You despise your chains, yet revere them. What is it that you want child?”, She teasingly asks, wounding her slender fingers around a flyaway rose. Exclaims in despair, “I don’t know.” Laughter again. “Nobody really does I suppose”, she said, more to herself than to anybody else. “Why do you seek freedom?” “Liberation of the mind and soul is the object of life.” “Very well,” she said, “Liberty you seek and Liberty you shall have”. And thus cast the ascending sun it’s first rays on the mischievous interrogator and the exiled one.
Lilac blooms upon the fading windowsill,
Quiet is the evening and despaired is the night.
Past death and past life must haunt dread
the man in the doorway, for he has dared
let wither the choicest blossom of the maidens gift.
Silence, ever faithful brooks no gentle rhythm
but draws on her loom of blue mist to weave
harsh discord into the spirit of the forthcoming dusk.
The loom hath shattered, but of what
concern is it in the light of the man’s grief?
Miles of Rain
The days after school haven't met change
Since times seasons revolved round the sun
You still wait by the corner lane
And I walk up after the bells have rung.
We eat a mouthful of your smoke
And break off bits of corn to make cake
Before we slip into the deep red of the
Bell-cracked wine glass with a rake
On Wednesdays you say, my hair looks nice,
That's for the soap I needed to save till
The next month so we didn't run out of rice.
There is, you know, comfort in unwashed mill
And yet more softness in hands that are soiled
To the nails in lovers' mud and dust.
It is only the shortness of one arm that
Asks to be coupled to twos at first.
Still, your fingers are long enough
To meet both ends and still cup snow
For us to breathe in the iced snuff,
To keep awake among the rafters below
For a few moments more.
We laugh at eachother's smiles
Lie forgetting and run wilder than raccoons
In Philadelphian winters, though miles
Of shadow could never erase these monsoons.
Unless you make it so, these months
Don't hold weddings or coronations
Or those hourly bypasses to coffee haunts,
But as it is, the gaps are fit to ration.
It has always been the dry edge of monsoon
Since times the seasons revolved round the sun.
- pollosky-in-blue
