When I untied my heartstrings,
Better Judgement snarled. “Why?”
I answered: “Because it needed to soar.”
Ideas are like the wind
Brushing our arms,
But hiding from sight
Pounding on frosted glass,
Demanding to be noticed,
Though their forms are blurred
Screaming until their voices
Feel like gravel in their throats,
But having no sound at all
Yet, this is the writer’s great struggle:
To bring to life what isn’t clear
Your words are
More valuable to me
Than precious gems
Than life-giving air
Imagine, if you will,
What would happen
If you used them
To destroy me
A Lost Soul, darkened by troubles,
Handed an Angel a set of worn cards
With ragged, trembling hands.
The Lost Soul tried to speak
But years of torment–
No doubt by the cards–
Made speech difficult.
Filled with pity, the Angel
Leaned down and said:
“Speak. I will listen.”
“Gracious One,” the Soul whispered.
“If it’s not too much trouble,
Can you put these back
And deal me new ones?”
Photo by Amisha Nakhwa
Deafening white noise
Away from society,
Wash my thoughts away.
Photo by Ravi Pinisetti
Rolling hills nestled
Under a verdant blanket
Speckled with fresh dew,
Shimmering in Heaven’s Light
Just breaching the horizon. Continue reading “Morning in the Fields”
In the City of Light, there was one
Whose warm, gentle luminance made her
The epitome of all that was good.
But then her admirers noticed she possessed
Something that no one in the City of Light
Should have: a shadow. A flaw.
No longer was she a symbol of purity,
But an object of disgust. So, her beloved
Admirers turned their backs on her.
As they walked away, she noticed dark voids
Trailing behind each of them that her light–
Now an object of disgust–couldn’t illuminate.
“Shadows,” she realized with some disbelief.
“Shadows as dark as mine.”