Across from me,
(Hides) from me.
With his family of none,
Never see any guilt or burden.
It’s always dark in there,
But he doesn’t care.
I’d like to deny,
But he’s burning alive.
I hear him cry every night,
everytime I turn on the light.
Scarred eyes staring in the void,
The truth he is trying to avoid.
Tries to run away a
From the nightmares that destroy the p w y
I’d like to deny
But he’s burning alive.
Never said a word,
Maybe that’s absurd.
Wonder what he feels like
a wool rug
Sees me gazing from behind
Never says a word but still hurting.
I’d like to deny,
But he’s burning alive.
I was late to my funeral the other day.
I thought it was only a block away,
But I muddled the streets up through and through
So I stood on a corner and waited for you.
I watched my watch as it ticked past noon
Sure that you come back soon
But the hours flew by, as I stared at the sky
Until I knew to arrive I needed to fly.
I ran as though I was being chased
My dress of black, my face of paste
Past the world of grey, the sky of white
Afraid I had let you out of my sight.
I did find the church, after all
The lonely chapel standing tall
I swayed, I ran, I shook, I cried
I tried to scream but my throat had dried.
I burst upon the silent room
A walking ghost in a lonely tomb
My hair was torn, my face blank wan
I searched for you, but you were gone….
The others screamed and wailed their woes
A field of black, a murder of crows
I couldn’t see, I couldn’t go-
You were missing, was all I know.
Up the steps, no pain, no strife
Prepared to face the end of my life
Eyes on the coffin, blissful agony-
I wanted to see the form of me…
And the world was gone, in the scent of rue…….
I wanted me - but it was you.
The best days of the year are the ones where I never see the sun.
It’s not because of the darkness. The cold and the dark…. It is almost like a physical pain, sometimes, when I dash from my mother’s car to the school, to the house, anywhere. So frigid…. Only a true Alaskan could bear it, and even I struggle. The knife- like chill, sliding gleefully between your coat and neck, down your chest, stealing into your throat, branching through veins, until you are as cold and lifeless as the ice, not so far away. And the darkness…. The suffocating need for light, a thirst that cannot be quenched. And in the darkness comes the memories - those whispers in the gloom, of times before everything seemed so meaningless…. Of times when the sun burnished your skin like a golden balm, and you laughed and were free and happy and had a grandmother at your side, always there… The long night forces life into harsh, horrible focus, until you there is no choice but to huddle under your blankets and weep, but you can’t because your tears might turn to ice before they can even run down your cheeks.
But I love it because with the winter comes the lights.
Fairbanks, Alaska, is an ideal place to see the Northern Lights - Aurora Borealis. This strange phenomena occurs only far, far north, and it is stunning. Green and purple flares twist and writhe to drumbeats in the sky, strands of pink fire shimmering against the shadowed backdrop. Canyons of blue, teardrops of gold, twisters and clouds and mirages, all tilting away, as if beckoning you on… and on… and on….
So, for just a second, I sneak outside on those frigid, lightless evenings. Not long enough to risk frostbite, not enough to feel my breath rattle inside of me…. Just long enough to shiver as I gaze at the poetry spelled across the sky. Somewhere, amid the dancing pigments, are the answers to every question we seek. Somewhere, flickering just within our reach, are the souls of those we can no longer see. As I gaze up at the miracles that dance across the ebony canvas every night, for one long season, I think I can hear a low voice, humming a lullaby, soothing me to sleep - and I know, against all reason, that the soul of my grandmother is dancing in the heavens.
My mother loved to sit in her garden.
She tended all of the plants, of course - luscious red roses, star-petaled lilies, layered blue-white columbine, puffy snapdragons in flavors of crimson and peach, clementine and gold. My favorite were the carnivorous Sundews - sparkling with red and green and gold nectar, so beautiful and so deadly. But, to her, nothing compared to daisies.
I never saw anything particularly remarkable about them - but when she spoke, voice like wind chimes on a blustery day, I could almost believe. She would tell me stories - wild fantasies - about the flowers, and the little creatures that inhabited them, and where they would go when they blew away during a rainstorm. They were such basic flowers - long white petals, a pollen-yellow center - but in her mind, they contained layers of hidden depth. Sometimes, I thought they were a lot like her - unassuming, pretty, fragile. It was as though they were connected by some invisible thread - how they clung the the earth the same way she clung to my arm, for life and support, or how she wept when half of them were torn apart by a squirrel. For those stolen hours, closeted away behind the garden walls, I could almost feel soft and sensitive, like the magic my mother knew was in those quivering little plants.
It’s been years now. I have a life beyond faeries and flowers, and the old house where my mother used to live houses a very nice young couple and their cat. I have my own family. But sometimes, once in a blue moon, I stop by to see the old place, breathe in the memories. And the current occupants always very kindly lead me into the back garden, which they have little time and less patience for, and have allowed to grow wild. Some of the plants are gone, though I try to weed out the Sundews. But I always stop when I get to those small, shaky flowers, white with a center of yellow, like a shard of the sun. Because, though every plant contains piece of my soul, it’s the daisies that truly help me remember my mother, and what she taught me to believe. And sometimes, in the stillness, as I touch my finger to those tremulous petals - I can almost feel her, still there, watching over the blossoms she treasured so dearly.
I shøøt up as I hear a whisper beside my ear
Dark silky mist fills my røøm
I løøk intø the cøld red eyes øf the demøn
All I can hear is the demøn's breath aløng with mine
His mist enveløps me putting me in a deep sleep
I løøk intø the mirrør while my bright red eyes illuminate the dark røøm
My hands are cøvered in black smøke aløng with my neck.
I can still breathe and still feel but the air as cøld
Everything I tøuch is frøzen
Whispers fill my ears
I can hear few wørds
Yøu are a burden
Yøu døn’t belong
Yøu are nøthing
Hateful wørds fill my head as I fall tø the grøund hands shaking
Døn’t let me be gøne fills the air as black mist fills my surrounding…