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Literature Text
The last of the light has arrived
sheltered under a tree I seek to find the right words
this is not my place nor time, and yet I am here
a lonely sliver of autumn embraced by the glorious summer
I cannot decipher how this unknown wind blows
I can only feel the flame under your palm
the way you move the earth that covers me
the movement of the skin and the shadows on the altar
inside the temple we built out of us, and for us
If you asked, I would give up my precious words
to watch your colours flicker on the sky for a little longer
but when it's time, I will still be there
I will always be there, and here
to paint the leaves scarlet for you
for us
and to hold your hand as we walk through the winter
sheltered under a tree I seek to find the right words
this is not my place nor time, and yet I am here
a lonely sliver of autumn embraced by the glorious summer
I cannot decipher how this unknown wind blows
I can only feel the flame under your palm
the way you move the earth that covers me
the movement of the skin and the shadows on the altar
inside the temple we built out of us, and for us
If you asked, I would give up my precious words
to watch your colours flicker on the sky for a little longer
but when it's time, I will still be there
I will always be there, and here
to paint the leaves scarlet for you
for us
and to hold your hand as we walk through the winter
Literature
Hollow
Here amidst the bones bleached white,
the echoes become trapped in ribcages
like a heartbeat.
But it’s just a sound.
No blood pumps through the
marrow thick like
baby’s breath-
flowers for someone who is sick or dying or
dead.
No light shines
under the skin and muscle.
How dark it must be for the
delicate, fleshy bits underneath.
The lungs don’t know when it’s time to
go. No moon to guide them.
How do they know when to
stop?
Does the heart even know the color
of blood?
Literature
the ghost
I don't know what I'm waiting for,
because I am a ghost and yet
I sit on my hands and wonder
where you've been -
I walk the forest in circles,
the methodical crunch
of leaves beneath my feet
and I remember
that you made me feel small,
and alone. here I am, facing
this brilliant hue that is me and myself
and I am the ghost but somehow
you are haunting me.
Literature
In the Syllable
...then there is a way in diswaiting.
Dust some yellow sand covers,
here uncover bare bedding.
...suffusing red planes, blushed dunes,
under incidentally quilted blanket
wet as arid curves, as sounds.
...in a persistent pavement,
in a solemn unsuited promise,
some written words erase
some letters drip and soak
unto a perfuse miracle,
a dislocated split,
a letting go of...
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Written for my lovely viljaisa
© 2014 - 2024 talvipaivanseisaus
Comments3
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This is truly beautiful...there is wistfulness and hope, fear and joy. The images and emotional content is so rich.