yawnder mourning

Encased in Ice
The boy must rise
He finds himself upon a lake,
where nobody is safe
For the sake of feeling,
He keeps dreaming, sleeping

He finds himself inside the snake,
What a terrible place to have to wait
This isn’t so bad, he tells himself
He can't move, not without some help
He must die before he reveals his wealth

He is naked, broad and broken
He hasn’t woken, eaten or spoken
The room he stands in is still, dark,
Refining the sound of a still heart

Emblazed tonight
The boy must rise
He finds himself upon the moon,
Says goodnight to his darling
Reaches for his gun
and waits for the sun

inspiration:



retrospectively, i can see this might not make much sense, but few dreams do.

Turmoil for the rose

Did she know the difference between the sunset and speaking of it? She's elusive, hard to look at, hard to see - you can find her in any book, hear about her in a number of songs, but have you ever seen her? She's beautiful, but what does that mean? It's only beauty that you were told of, not beauty that you know, or beauty that anyone can be.

She remembers the smell of a rose, and what it meant to enjoy something simple and sweet. But she can't remember how she held it, or the plant she picked it from. She can't remember the richness of the soil, or the radiance of the sun. She can't remember how she got there, or who gave it to her. She only remembers the rose and what it meant.

She wears that band around her arm to remember how the starburst burned and left many scars. She wept on those days that she heard the songs that reminded her of what happened, trying to only remember the positives, the person she was glad to have become. That rose had thorns, she couldn't hold it long.

There was no sureness, only closure. There was torrential crying, drowning out the world with music that only made the world that much more inescapable. There were those words and roads and places she couldn't say or travel or visit, because of the people she remembered, herself and they. There was only turmoil, patience and the eventual numbness that is made when a heart has been struck so many times that it's only something she can sing about, and something she remembers fondly.

She remembers the foggy morning she woke up and realized that there was something in her life that wasn't going to be there anymore, and how she could never grasp and hold that warmth. She remembers taking off the mask and struggling to smile. She remembers how it felt to see someone scream without uttering a sound. She remembers how hard it was to breath under that mask, and how she couldn't smell that rose or wipe her tears. She remembers falling back into bed to wait for this day to end, and she remembers there was someone next to her that day. She remembered the day that fog cleared up and rain came through.

She remembers the day she realized the rose wouldn't remember her.

She remembers trying to paint a portrait of herself, but never quite being satisfied with her eyes. She remembers not liking the frames she saw, and she remembers trying to paint the rose but never quite knowing how to picture herself holding it. She risks her sanity trying to paint that portrait, day after day, to try and crutch her memory. She remembers the fall nearly killing her on the way down, and not having someone to call an ambulance. She remembers when she could walk again, and she remembers that excruciating pain she felt almost every day. She remembers burning the painting for what it did to her, and allowing the embers to consume the house she couldn't call home anymore.
She remembers the air of doubt she had for the so-called qualities she was told about her. She remembers how easy it was to chop off her long, beautiful hair every year, and she remembers how easy it was to rid herself of such petty physicalities. She remembers driving in the rain and being glad she was sheltered from it, and she remembered the song she played all the way to the grave.

vines

dance around in the bramble,
while the heart is raw and ample
cut all of the entangled vines
that all end in something nice
i watched you have a heart attack,
sliced the veins that held you back
it oozes out and fills the room,
i hope you will be leaving soon
this bowl looks like the bleeding moon
these branches crack like thunder now
like power lines that touched the ground
and electrify the man they found