As you pick up the lantern in front of you, you find it filled with a busy, buzzing flurry of lights. Somebody stuffed fireflies into this one - not the proper thing at all. You unfasten the latch, open the door; the little bugs stream out gratefully. They bathe the wayside in a faint glow for a moment, then vanish in the pitch-black of the Long Night one by one.
You settle down cross-legged and gently put the empty lantern onto your lap to dream up a star.
They look quite like bits of dead, dried lavender, but when you plant them in rich soil, they grow two slim grey doves in a month. They sit on the bed post above your head, side by side. In most of your dreams, it rains now. When you are sad at night, a song like a soft blanket weaves itself through the room and rests over your shoulders; when you laugh, the birds startle and disappear.
The birdseed bush, looking like an enlarged lavender plant, will yield new ones from its purple blossoms within a week if needed.
As you pick up the lantern in front of you, you find it filled with a busy, buzzing flurry of lights. Somebody stuffed fireflies into this one - not the proper thing at all. You unfasten the latch, open the door; the little bugs stream out gratefully. They bathe the wayside in a faint glow for a moment, then vanish in the pitch-black of the Long Night one by one.
You settle down cross-legged and gently put the empty lantern onto your lap to dream up a star.
They look quite like bits of dead, dried lavender, but when you plant them in rich soil, they grow two slim grey doves in a month. They sit on the bed post above your head, side by side. In most of your dreams, it rains now. When you are sad at night, a song like a soft blanket weaves itself through the room and rests over your shoulders; when you laugh, the birds startle and disappear.
The birdseed bush, looking like an enlarged lavender plant, will yield new ones from its purple blossoms within a week if needed.
she dances with the wind, not understanding
any of my cares, and yet - she cares
for all of them. I tell her "I deserve better than this
old abyss again and again."
and I am tired enough for an entire forest, but
old pine, mother of wings, stands still and
nurtures many things (me being the smallest of them, only
a whisper of a girl), and in whispers I learn
how to nurture something
not fire or dark, something like roots
or strong rainstorms
or the slow patience, the unafraid confidence that lets her stand tall
and be touched by nothing but wind
and sunshine and all the good things,
none of them human, none of them harm.
one day, I will st
with gold on your fingertips,
you paint the leaves as bright as your bones
now carrying bravery, bright as
the wings on your back, always
abuzz or afloat or alight and never
never backing down - my dear
you are what the tide brought in, a piece
of warm wood, a moment
of sunshine and serendipity and here
we are now, walking the same
bridges of words, of wishing, and you:
elbows painted with garlands, flowering and free
from thorns, soft
strength in the stems alone -
how you grow with the brightness of the leaves,
grow to bury your hands in tall trees,
and carry wisdom tucked into the backs of your knees
- you
step on the snow
and into sof
.a small part of growth. by LadyBitterblue, literature
Literature
.a small part of growth.
so I am no longer running
down dark, deserted alleys in the rain,
desperately
hoping and waiting that death will
save me;
I sit at a small town train station,
wooden bench warmed by the sun,
waiting for a friend
and watching the wind whisper
to the trees, the birds
fly past with their secrets, trains rushing
down the tracks in merry noise, and
I live in that moment
until he arrives to take me home.
we have no hurry,
only joy.
here is your throne,
say the moths at night
sitting in a long white line
which is not quite a silver lining
but enough of it
- enough of the night & its dark
sound of fuzzed wings beating
my skin, to the tune of headaches;
haven't we had enough
of the paper-thin blades, hidden
in the silence
& the silence of this paper,
being a knife itself;
haven't we had enough of violence
slowly spun into something soft
and all ending up silence
here are my words,
i say in a large beat of wings
(the music of a million moths
breathing in)
& i am covered in something
which might be wet earth & a graveyard night
- but don't we all carry our
she reads her skin for a morning paper, tiny specks of red forming constellations full of stories. something about sunshine (turned to honey, capturing all the birds mid-flight). something about revelations. getting to the horoscope, it only says
scorpio: you will persist.
that is all it ever says.
beautiful, faraway fairy child
a curling glyph across her elbow reads, never seen before. she knows the moon must have left that one. the moon that wraps her up in veils of silver, makes her something strange and splendorous for the night, the price only a dream or two. she smiles a smile of pearls and sundays.
the morning slowly passes, while th
with gold on your fingertips,
you paint the leaves as bright as your bones
now carrying bravery, bright as
the wings on your back, always
abuzz or afloat or alight and never
never backing down - my dear
you are what the tide brought in, a piece
of warm wood, a moment
of sunshine and serendipity and here
we are now, walking the same
bridges of words, of wishing, and you:
elbows painted with garlands, flowering and free
from thorns, soft
strength in the stems alone -
how you grow with the brightness of the leaves,
grow to bury your hands in tall trees,
and carry wisdom tucked into the backs of your knees
- you
step on the snow
and into sof
I like to sit in my garden and listen to the wind, catching its stories to keep safe. I also like to think I'm a magician more than a writer; words are just my favourite form of magic.