Today my heart is crying
For something once received
And every second
Which passes at the tick
The distance between us
Swallowing our voices
Grinding our memories
To powdered dreams
I walked my dog here from the time the rain smelled of flowers through heated summer pains. We grew old here, grey hairs cropping up like pine needles. Soon we were covered with avalanches of them, prickly and sticky like aches and pains. Needles gave way to winters and snows heavy with human sorrow.
I had my first kiss here when birds were still quiet against the rising sun. He rested his hand on my cheek. He told me it would be alright. We planned a wedding through the morning dew and afternoon rays. But when the evening breeze came it left no remains. In the dark they strangled what we thought we had. By midnight it was just me and the needles, alone again.
I find myself in this place, over and over, shuffling dying fire starter from one memory to another. There’s smoke in the distance; the smell of burning dreams. I wonder what’s the cost to catch it all aflame and dissolve into the night, a waft of regret on the scent of what remains.
Word Count: 178
For Sunday Photo Fiction – This might as well have been partially written by Dirty Three (seriously, I’ve been on a binge)
The moon and stars
From where you are
Prompt – Song
Music – If These Trees Could Talk – Above the Earth, Below the Sky
In my dreams you’re always singing the song
The music is always right there,
In my bedroom, in my bed, lying next to me it seems
And your voice lays over it, so serene.
Sometimes you don’t sing,
It’s only music then
And we float away to another land.
We can dance the night away,
From the kitchen to the clouds.
We exist above material sounds.
In those moments
I can feel it in my soul,
The music makes me complete
In your arms and your eyes
I get lost every time.
The music tells me it’s ok,
Your song tells me you’re ok,
Whether we’re together in these dreams
Forever or never.
Sometimes I wish I knew the song was for me.
Sweet as it may be,
These aren’t reality after all.
And my mind starts working,
The way it does,
And we fall.
Just like our song.
What will happen when we hit the ground?
I sold myself a saintly lie,
Wrapped in taffeta ribbon,
Covered in gold glinted wrapping.
I pray nightly
To my golden deity;
Held high on hollow hopes and dreams.
I thought rightly,
“One day it will be me.”
I wait for my answers to subtle prayers.
Oh how I tread lightly,
As a plan takes shape in this mind.
“One day I will make you proud.”
I bow low and worship quietly,
But I will not be silent for long.
For the time has come to action.
I give you all in the name of my saintly lie.
Go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch where we are discussing whether writing is an art or a craft or both
I’ve got a box,
A small copper thing covered with aged patina
That clings and clangs like demon fangs
As I drag it on rusty chains.
I’ve got a penchant
For slimy pulsing treasures;
Stuff my little box to the brim.
Each with a price,
Each a pulsating reminder.
For each treasure I find
I leave a piece of myself behind.
Always leaving the other for the better,
While I limp away with my beating box of treasure.
There’s only one I truly desire;
The one I traded for my foolish dreams.
I’d gladly give every bloody gem
In my pounding box of treasure,
If you’d only give me the one I need to survive.
I’m afraid I no longer have the price to pay
For hauling this bleeding box of treasure.
Go read some of the posts over at The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch, we have some good ones up this week!
I’ve been working on some other stuff that won’t make it on here for a bit but I wanted to post something today. So for the prompt neophyte (who actually uses that word?) here’s a part of something that I’m still working on.
It’s not new,
These rising sensations
Whenever I’m near you.
It seems my head is always
Filled with these dreams
Yet plagued with this fear.
Stepping into the dark,
When you’re so afraid
Of what you can’t see
Snarling just beyond
The lights breaking
Keeps me tied to this path
I can feel you there,
I hear your music playing
But you wander just beyond
The lights leaking.
Also, go browse The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch! Last week our posts were “The Art of …”