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Literature Text
Highway traffic, seamless like the skies
of October; distant lights foretell
a visitor.
A gush of wind, a magnolia laden threshold.
Another blackout.
We share
the
of October; distant lights foretell
a visitor.
A gush of wind, a magnolia laden threshold.
Another blackout.
We share
the
- much sought after
Literature
Shadows of Whales
What I wanted to say was that I remembered the clouds,
that I watched them paint shadows across the ground,
giant birds of prey gliding across the aether - whales,
lost in a different sea, to float
white and pregnant
with all the sounds of things; thundering out
threats of the sky, sounds full of fury
and the disease that catches you off guard
"Open your door. I must come in."
what I wanted to say was that the echoes are the same
that the pulses of sound are just pieces of the original
instead of slightly dimmer copies
every one a herald
of the silence, soon to come.
I wanted to say things that, maybe, you'd listen to -
that sort of alab
Literature
Paper-Thin Promises
the first time I caught sight of your
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statu
Literature
Frailty
I see it in her sinking eyes,
the silence of their gaze--a child
batting at the final thread
of life, nine for nine. Darker days
pass with worry tumbling deep
in its high-walled pit. I see it:
something that says this is the last,
when I touch the curve of her back,
the rise of spine, the uneven quiet
of her response while winter bulks
and burns with its oppression of frost.
I see it in my brother, the care
of each hand as it arches over bone.
There is hunger, but she does not eat--
only laps at a small drinking bowl--
and I tell him this is it, it is now:
but he insists as love does--wandering
dove in the dark cave that is d
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- I was sitting on the terrace three nights earlier. Draining my cup of tea, listening to the highway traffic: quiet; loud. The visitor is here, Winter. For the house-lights twinkle just after 6 pm. And what are we seeking? I guess, a bit of madness. Of what? The last line's where the pun's intended if, it makes sense.
Edit (September 22,2013): This was the most pleasant surprise. A DD? Excuse me while I 
. I am overwhelmed by the appreciation given to this written piece. I checked this page a couple of times, just to be sure if this is real. It is. 
Firstly, shukariya cality for suggesting this, and Beccalicious for featuring it. 
And thank you for reading. © 2011 - 2024 MehreenFreed
Comments27
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October breath is...
Nothing like it used to be
So quiet like me
Who never saw the black sky
As it breathed out
And I breathed in this death
At last I saw it
The moon and all its beauty
~silent somebody~