Early Age Quest

I was searching
The dots on the map kept you hiding
Seven minutes and seven hours later
Not a trace of you,
except those glitters
Dancing on the warm and packed air
But maybe I was too stubborn to
Let go of you in despair
I strive for your glistening shadows

Yes, shadows.

You're a deflated bouquet of soft yellow flowers
Derogating every power I tried to gain
from my weaknesses
You sit in on a camaraderie of  frail strings
My heartstrings
From where we differ
Until the last of our blinking brown eyes

Every night we're not dead on the ground
Thanks to my endless quest of you,
round and round

I was searching
And I still am

~c, b.e.w (February 20th 2014)

A marriage of fists and kites, 
the smile is hammered so painstakingly 
into the gut it forms a ring.
~ Trophies, by Robert Fernandez (from "We Are Pharaoh", 2011)

 It came anyway, that uprush   

of fear—because somewhere a child was dead:   

at a market, a subway, a school, in a lunatic’s bed.

~ Driving to Camp Lend-A-Hand, by Berwyn Moore (2005)

Capturing What I Will Miss

Scrolling past through my tumblr likes was a big throwback. And I like that. The scents and feels of flattering images on how I was and what I did or what used to be my obsessions. Some still going strong. Some faded slowly and left blurry images all over my memory, but not yet ghosts. There were pictures of skies. Dark blue with heavy clouds, black and white fading stars, pink and light orange with a view of summer haze. Another was snowy and softly lit up by the morning sun.

Further down, fashionistas smile with their long blond hair and straight white teeth, holding cold glasses with variously colored liquids inside. Branded bags, shoes, and jewelry captured by an expensive camera in an equally expensive cream room. Flowers all over a wooden table, candles, a man and woman exchanging rings and grins. 

Scroll again, and I found quotes of my favorite poets, gifs of my favorite people, and another, and another. Things I would hate to pass by. Things I would hate to slip away from my grip.

We sure love life, aren't we? 

While this life is not where we belong.

A Thousand Sculptures

A Thousand Sculptures

            The pain and harm was critical. Through the pale leaves and walls the howls embraced, digging deep to ears that still could hear silent promises. Those who brought to life by fear and deranged, insane hope. Promises, enveloping like a blanket, defeating. They breathed, breathed deep.

           

          In a land of neverending winter, those kinds of promises could be heard everywhere and everytime. Or found. Abandoned on white, frozen ground, no longer breathing. Dead. Like most of those who made them born and alive even for a short period of time, on the same land. Breathing only to learn that they would be killed soon enough.

Now, that sounds so much like them.

           

           Red lips bitten until they bruised. Until the redness gone in the mind, all faded to the heavy air around them, while they lied flat on their fabric-covered back, shivering. Unbearable cold immersed to their stiff bones, to their sense, to the almost hollow space where they whispered each other’s name, and the voice echoed even louder, because the space went even hollower by the time they erased and threw away what was filling it before.

            

          They needed to forget everything and remember only one thing. Each other. Each other’s hands, each other’s smile, each other’s warmth, and what tied them together until today, where everything started and everything ended. A soon to die promise escaped her bleeding lips. She was too careless and too afraid to take it back, letting silence took over it and tied the end for her and the whole universe that swirled her insides. Without a doubt and without a trace, her promise fell to a comma.

I am loneliest than I've ever been

To See

In between a waterfall,
And a valley
There will always be a forest
With an outlying alley

Alongside the remote track
Will always be there
Lilies with hundreds of crack
On their petals, and their leaves are bare

Out in the coldness
They could not see their reflections
While they hold beauty like a duchess
Due to lack of affection

Oh,
The had eyes
But yet their wish
Is to see whatever lies
Between grasses and goodbyes

To see what hold them up
Against the strong push of the winds

To see themselves
Strong against life

c, b. e. w~
December 23th, 2013

World's Sketch From Distinct Black Ink

Grey glass bowl and sparkling words
Under a red moon and star stitches
Things look grim and, sweetheart,
For fear even, they saddened it.

The grey glass bowl
Knows nothing about the red moon
Only sometimes from the sparkling words,
That are noticeable, since they glow
Like strings of the star stitches

The sparkling words
Are religion to the grey glass bowl
The way they blow out weak gleams
They stole from star stitches
And air of wonder from the red moon.

Above, sweetheart,
Those are frictions of things and their stories
Inside of human limits, inside of the burden
Our solar system has

Inside of wrongs and rights,
Limitations, they all are