Poetry

In the old town: Sneakers hang from traffic lights as if to say they would have run if they could. If they weren't tethered to this place, and so paired their steps with the sound of airhorns. The sound of trains is the sound of sepia now -- the city turned monochrome. At least a handful I know claim it as their birthright. You can see the last peak highlight of a streak of young hair across its tracks as it stitched itself to the sun. It has reclaimed the light in an old flame's eyes. Maybe we fell in love because we stood before each other as far away, we saw places emanating somewhere in our reflections, but everything open has since sealed itself matte as flowers in wall-paper, stowed away in self-preservation - a garden as prescient as petals pressed between laminates. There is a landscape made in the color-schemes of us cordoned off and arranged just so, and I think a sound might do the same when it can no longer take us where we want to be, how it teams with

Everyone lives on an island of their own ridiculous make, And no matter how insignificant they claim a much grander stake. They all shout their thoughts and reveries, their hate and anger, too, Passing judgment on each soul that dares to wander through. Their island is an empire of dime-sized majesty, Where wisdom never comes to those who look like you and me. Only in their image can a person hold some worth, Otherwise be damned and exiled back to mainland earth. So be wary where you moor your vessels in this conscious sea~ For these islands stand as prisons where no dream could e'er be free. Seek instead the larger landmasses where minds are never chained, Where the knowledge grows like fruit, to be savored as it's gained.

silent dirge of clouds indigo sky swells with rain a spellbound season

We are like children, Keeping special secrets, Buried in the stony soil, Of our suffering hearts. Secrets can grow, Like poisonous fruits, In appearance delicious, But deadly in a single bite. Some secrets give strength, In times of weakness, Reminding us of who we are, Giving us our true name. Other secrets are meant, To be shared with lovers, Binding them together, With unbreakable bonds. Finally, there are secrets, That are meant to be secrets, Knowable only upon death, To those with broken souls.

I saw a forest and a lonely tree. In low clouds fallen from the sky on lifeless branches blanketed in winter’s fog. A crimson sun-like drop of blood, tree trunks, lofty and majestic in their blazing splendor -- its passion burns through my loneliness. A white swirl of piercing cold -- the wind and I are both still and silent. An ancient oak supports a young pine tree. Snow will not melt under the sun's fragile rays. Ice cracks, breaks up, and floats down the river. The ground is cold and wet. First morning larks crawl out from their cozy beds beneath the snow. Thick winter fur keeps their bodies warm for long. I grasped a single thread of the spider’s web. Frozen droplets sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight. My breath creates a trail of white smoke. The fog is lifting above me now. I move slowly against the piles of snow. I'm terrified to step on nature's toes. Life's warmth is closer to me than ever before.

At the end of the final human-elven war, the elves' greatest mages were assembled to put an end to the conflict once and for all. Together, they cast a powerful shrinking curse that reduced all humans to near-insignificance overnight, thus beginning the Age of Elves. In the days to come, countless humans would be killed by the elves, with everyone from soldiers to vengeful widows and even unsuspecting children taking part in the massacre. Every human that could be found was exterminated. For centuries, humans were believed extinct. It wasn't until the year 813 AE that elven biologists discovered surviving human populations leading an ant-like existence deep in the wilds far from all civilization. The discovery caused a stir in elven society, and tens of thousands traveled to see for themselves that once-proud race which had so troubled their kind in ages past. Some took to crushing whatever humans they came across, whether as revenge for some ancestor killed in the wars or simply

“I Saw My Body Dreaming” Gather, enshrouding dark to my supper. This is my body. This is my shame— My body! The last great deception. You see me caged in what I have loved— The final reflection. For so long, it was safe here— But it’s not helping anymore. I wakened in the night, Without disturbing my slumber. I saw my body dreaming— Somehow, I had left it behind, I saw the skin become stone— So much more than I had hoped for… The wars had been laid aside— What cares bedewed the sleeper’s brow Lay buried in the vestiges of blood, For long had the stone been bleeding, To bleed no more its own ruin. A sigh escaped the surrounding night. Stalking from these mortal relics. I placed my hand upon the sleeper, And found only grains of sand, Where once flesh was made stone. And amid the ruins of what had been Man Lay, end-to-end, the bones of his deities, Self-slain in offering to Their own shrines. What words did they speak, Beyond a fading cry of, “Who now shall say 'Amen'?” © 2023

Framme's Cheerleader(FE Engage:Cheer TF/MC) "AHH Divine One, you look so shiny when you sweat!" "Hey! Hey! Look over here! Hey!" AH! The Divine One looked right at me!" "Four, three, two, on, who's our favorite dragon?! You! Y-O-U!" It was inescapable, the words may change but the sentiment stayed the same. Day in, day out, Divine Dragon Alear was bombarded by the passionate praise of one woman. And that woman was one of her stewards and President of the Divine Dragon Fan Club, Framme. Now Alear appreciated that Framme devoted her life to taking care of her, and that she just wanted to show her support. She simply wished that she would do it... a bit less often and perhaps more quietly, or preferably silently. It was a struggle to get anything done with Framme always distracting her, so she tried whatever she could to get Framme to tone it down. Unfortunately nothing worked, but then Alear had an idea that just might work. To get started she just had to tell Vander to assign Framme a

The daily gargled crow is heard, loud and demanding. She pushes herself up. Runs to the kitchen; harina, hot water, salt, butter. All together into a bowl they go; left hand in, right hand in, and smoosh. Keep smooshing till todo se ve igual; everything looks the same. Masa is too dry, add some more water. Formed arepas go on the stove, one after the other. A few minutes on one side; flip the arepa; a few more minutes go by; take that one off and put on the next arepa. A uniform is gingerly pulled off the clothesline; running back inside, it goes on. Slightly wet socks go on first, and then feet go into suffocating shoes. ¡Chava apurate! She dashes out the door. Girls run together to school. She sits quietly, her back stiff against her seat. Screetch, screetch, screetch. Looking around, all heads are bowed, hands furiously moving from left to right. Screetch, screetch, screetch. She looks down. Blank. No se que hacer, no se nada. Smack; a hot, stinging sensation dissipates as soon as