Language

In my chest, my heart is warming
And my spirit is nudging me

I recognize this language you speak
The same truth that sets me free

It feels as though we were meant to meet
To keep one another company 

Come and sit, let’s talk a while
Become fluent, and just be

-image via Pixabay

Potion, a Limerick

She wakes every morning atrocious,
All sharp, teeth and nails, quite ferocious.
He mixes java potion,
And with swift tipping motion,
A (daily) fairytale metamorphosis.

-image via Pinterest and quote by Nanea Hoffman; limerick shared in response to Mind and Life Matters’ Limerick Challenge, Fairytale.

She Can Imagine

She could still see him standing there in the doorway, paused. Struggling to keep quiet, the tears escaped, despite her best efforts to contain them. Biting her pillow, she muffled as much of the crying sound as possible. Oh god, more than anything she wanted him to turn around and come to her. To scoop her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay. She wanted to feel safe. She wanted to hear it and believe it.

Yet, there was also this part of her that didn’t even want him to acknowledge she was crying. Who didn’t want his sympathy. Who didn’t need his help. That same part of her who wanted him, but might never be able to admit how much she needed him. To breathe.

Hunched over the pillow cradled in her arms, she sat with her legs crossed, her back against the headboard, watching him through blurry eyes. Needing him, but that other part of her willing him to walk away. To save himself the ache.

“You are my life. My love. Why won’t you let me in?,” he asked as he turned to face her.

But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know there’s nothing there. It’s a swirling mess of darkness and ugly. It’s cold in there. No one who has ever seen any part of it has wanted to stay. No one.

“I’m trying,” she said, desperately hoping he’d believe her.

As he stood there looking at her, she saw the pain in his eyes. Those eyes that told her he’s all in. Hell, his behavior over the past decade had proven he’s the most trustworthy person she’s ever known. Which makes it all the more risky to really let him in. There’s more to lose.

And she can imagine losing it.

-photo found on Pinterest, source unknown 

Willow

Oh, willow, my quiet and humble friend
My home away from home
Your trunk my sturdy backbone 
So my heart is free to roam

Where the quiet can fold around me
The breeze delivering words to pen
And Mother Earth beneath my feet
Grounding, as I look to the heavens

Today I visit on tired feet, friend
With a spirit feeling caged
A heart asking so many questions
And a soul too worn for my age

Oh, willow, wrap me in your softness
Protect me from the wind
There’s a thunder that’s a’rumblin’
A hurricane from within

Image via Pixabay

Stay

  

yes, I can hear you
but I can’t let you in
I’ve gotten so lost
in these webs that I spin

I open my mouth
but no sound comes out
I can’t find my voice
my throat is all drought

my heart is the opposite
it’s pumping too much
overflowing and clouding
everything that I touch

emotions so large
they threaten to break me
I want and I need
but I fear you will flee

so, don’t come too close
you’ll get stuck in here, too
I’ll pull and then push
until you’re black and you’re blue

…unless, by some chance
you really wish to stay…
the key is all yours
I have so much to say

Created in response to the Daily Post, Voice

Redundant

today was the end of the beginning,
and tomorrow will be the beginning
of the end that never begins

for, history spins on a turntable, 
needle following grooves, 
and time’s tone arm stuck on repeat,
repeat

time seems to bind us
in redundancy

-image via Pixabay

Autumn

The room was quiet, but for the near silent whisper of the curtain sheers dusting against the pane, as the autumn breeze waltzed through the small opening in the window. Peering out, she relished the cool comfort. 

Beyond the long stretch of yellow-tipped green grass, was a thick wood. The brown trunks stretched into scarlet, papaya, and maize, swaying in time with the breeze, a postage stamp echo of the rural wood she knew as a child. Inside, her heart clung to the tree-topped rhythm, to the familiar, soothing music that belongs only to the autumn, the peaceful, vibrant tune of youth. 

-image found on Pixabay; writing part of a larger work, shared as part of dVerse prompt, prose poetry