Snow, a Quadrille 

once, her world sagged 
under the weight of the storm 

today, the storm is finally receding;
rain’s long, wet fingers caress,
hope falling in chilly droplets,
cleansing in goosefleshed trails 

there is something peaceful about her,
as if snow has settled inside her soul

-image via Pixabay; created and shared as part of dVerse’s Quadrille Monday

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Written in the Stars

he scribbled his intentions
across her willing flesh,
with fingertips and glistening
streaks of wetness,
leaving pools of hope and lust
in her clearly seeing eyes

he penned chapter after chapter
over her every curve and thew,
with warm whispers
fevered grips and moans,
and commands that pushed her toward
leaving her speechless, no need to speak

he illustrated their story
in the spaces that were once
between them

he bound their story
with a boundless spine
made of their blood and sweat

their story is written in the stars

~photo credit Tumblr, source 

Malice

time was the cold, bone-crunching cement 
beneath her feet;
each ticking minute cruel,
and every passing hour punishing 

for, all around her, 
in every moment of awareness, 
were time’s stealthy hands

without warning, they would grip her,
wringing her out in fiery fists,
an icy vacancy on its ceaseless face 
as they squeezed and knotted,
yet, allowed her to live

it occurred to her each time –

what great malice there can be,
in allowing something to live

-image via Pixabay; inspired by a recent read

Time Passing

it’s been over 14 years,
of chasing my tail ‘round and ‘round,
simultaneously bored out of my mind,
and saturated with touch and sound

5,177 days
of being lonely but never alone,
of being physically and emotionally drained, 
while my brain atrophied, shriveled to none

124,248 hours,
full of ideas and personal revelation,
so many things I’ve needed to say,
but no one with which to have conversation

7,454,880 minutes,
of creative thoughts popping into my head,
but never enough time to write them, 
to see where they may have lead

447,292,800 seconds 
wondering if I’ve wasted too much time,
worrying about the little things, 
instead of experiencing joy in this heart of mine

-image via Pixabay

Stormy

Forehead against the drop-streaked glass, 
Palms resting on window pane,
Foggy breath exhales ghosts of past,
As eyes echo mother earth’s rain,
And, as concave divots mark time’s pass,
With each ricochet hope is gained,
For, thunder is but a catalyst,
And lightning nature’s metamorphosis  

-Image is Winter Rain, by Marta Bevacqua; written as part of dVerse Poet Pub’s meeting the bar, using the form of the ottava rima. Go check it out and jump in! 

The Wind

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I cannot control the wind
or it’s constant metamorphose,
I listen to the rustling of the leaves
and watch the tree tops sway,
I feel it’s force against my cheeks
as my heels dig into the ground

I fight achingly against each sudden surge
and lean in with all my might,
while it gainfully gusts
and steadily swirls
any way it chooses,
with no conscience, no regret

until I’m left squarely standing,
slightly swaying like the tops of trees,
I close my eyes, feet firmly planted,
listening to more than the leaves

I hear my inner voice, shouting,
‘I have not acquiesced’

for, I know,
I cannot control the wind,
nor can it control me

-Image credit rhads.deviantart.com