[x]

FableMoon cloaks
fallen from
shoulders,

(and you are)

left clad in only
the softest of
shadows.

AThere is birdsong and
sun-drenched long limbs,
sprawled across India green;

wet hair haloes and
a restless route scrawled
up arms and over hands.

There are blueberry smiles,
feet upon dashboards,
and city-light fireflies...

(And,
then there is you.
Always, always you.)

HazeCatching sunlight;
golden silhouettes
dripping

with the
taste of summer
lingering,

heavy upon lips.

Of BlissKissing daffodils sway,
serenaded by the waver of
gossamer wings;

faces blushing bright
as the sunlight
slips away.

SimbelmyneThere is silence here, upon
stale skull tombs—
these everminds are stilling...

(And yet their tragedies
shall endure in the pallor of the
flowers in your hands.)

Sky EyesDesert hands tell tales
of a hundred arid summers, but
you are no longer as cloudless as they

(there is a storm
creeping through blue, blue veins).

But tell the sky to keep her sorrow,
that grey cascade blurring against
eyelids and horizons;

and suppress her misbegotten
droplets, seeping into the sodden
ground underfoot—

for there is still sun in your sky eyes.

GhostsNight time musings;
hollow-eyed and shallow-breathed,
filling the spaces between clouds.

Quivering shadow skin…

And there are voices in the dark,
lost sighs and weight upon whisper;
but, we are all whispers here.

SehnsuchtOctober again;
and the curtains billow
with broken glass echoes and
Mendelssohn's bride waltzing
to better times

(ein
zwei
drei)

She becomes the rain,
and breaks her own heart as
the sound
drips
right through us.

WinterbleederCurled around alpine legs and caught
within hollows and inclines of pale skin,
she carries her endless winter always.

It settles upon frosted shoulders and
caps heavy-lidded eyes, clinging close to
the darkness of each snow-flecked breath;
lingering above cracked lips and the
remnants of a long forgotten warmth.

But darling, don't we deserve each other?

(She'd been Spring's child before Winter's whispers.)

on wet roadsv. She wasn't meant to be helped. We are all wrung from the same breaded soil, bound by our virginal ties to bareback earth. And so maybe it's okay to be a beggar, then, cradling this age-old fatigue.

xcvi. "Here, try this."

Nothing had ever sensitized me more than the smell of green, carried heavily on gusts of crisp oceanic air. The world slowly began to fade around me, and I let my head drop to my knees while the gentle rush of sea teemed humble volumes of vibrant aural stimulation.

"I don't really care who it is, you know. All I want is someone real."
An hour passed in silence. "Lift up your head." It's too heavy for me to carry, plea

MetamorphosisYour
hands
tremble
with sudden,
wary, butterfly
wing shivers—tiny tremors that
will keep rhythm with your quivering heart, only to
later, clandestine and yet nearly poetic, unravel you from the outside-in.

O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,
bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.
Half in love in this half-life half-light;

pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreaming
of the gods. Wanderer, today I died and
died again, and whispered prayers

to clasped hands… until the nestled
droplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;
and when moonrise came, I sang again.

SeashineSacred skin
where heavens and ocean
collide,

an imprint on salted lungs
an echo

of aching, of
a moonlit yearning upon the
rolling tide.

Fever DreamsHush now,
and close your eyes
against this vermillion sunset.

You feel so much, too much:
leave crescent moons on my skin,
calm the anguished crimson heat
of your own burning heart.

This war shall end, my love;
but what will you be,
if not red?

ApsaraFind me sunken into the
lotus field, bathing skin silvergreen,
waist-deep and pink

in sunset, and we will cry:
for three-faced elephants,
for rain,

for the dancers threading grace
between their fingertips—
until I dress in the heaviness,

a sarong of heat.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 698 bytes more ▶

More from *Concora

Memoir III1.
Thunderstorm
on the way to school:
roadside tsunami.

2.
Sunday morning—
burnt pancakes,
lined like Jupiter.

3.
Yin-yang cat
dozes, balancing
waking and dreaming.

4.
Cloud gazing in
the rain—tears of the
weeping woman.

5.
Hot chocolate—
marshmallow meteors
in a darkened sky.

Con AmoreCicada violinists,
and champagne flutes
brushing lips:

an autumn concerto.

MizpahThe crying wind
brings a

deluge:

lost
and blurred at
the edges,
you

become

a
whisper.

DebussyRestless under the
clairvoyant moon—
dreams quiver like
candlelight against
a long-lost muse.

MuselingRed wine rambles
curdle the air, but still
you dream; half-moon
body curled in the

lamp light. I am leaving,
I am leaving, choking on
some holy word—
the floorboards creak,

a sonata for my
changeling shadow
whilst you, hair tangled upon
the pillow, are spun gold.

PeonyAlone, but for
the red boots marching
through my

cathedral heart: I
am beating echoes
in this city of the

lost. Ghost-
stepping little girl's
dreams, I visit mama

in the night; but
flowers and wine won't
pay for her light.

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#WriterArt
Where Writers Find Writing

#LooseLacesPoetry
Poetry Feeds Our Souls

#WritersInk
What's your story?

#InspireTheUninspired

#Troupe-of-Writers
Closed till May 2013

Details

Submitted: September 5, 2012
File Size: 698 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 37
Favourites: 32 [who?]
Views: 376 (0 today)
Downloads: 5 (0 today)

[x]

Lointain

by *Concora, Sep 5, 2012, 2:27:26 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Fantasy / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

Listen carefully, for I am plucking spider-web harp strings in the light of your glistening, rain-sodden breath. There is such beauty in this city, and in symphony, you see—so keep rhythm with these skeleton trees dancing on street sides, winter branches quivering. Can you hear the beat of your heart? Its cadence is being matched by that of the shadows, ephemeral figures waltzing hand-in-hand across cobblestones and twirling at the very cusp of the lamp posts' soft glow...

Sway now, my dearest, to the allure of this chorus in the night; to the echoing sound of this moonlit sonata.

Lointainby *Concora

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Fantasy / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

(Lointain – comes from the French phrase "Comme un echo lointain,"
"Like a distant echo." It indicates that the music should sound like
it's coming from (or belongs in) the background.)

-

Featured:
Here by =dreamsinstatic
Here by *TheAutumnCrocus
Here by ~Lacewinged-Beauty

Thank you both so much!