[x]

untitled 01life writes stories on the skin;
told in blood and bone,
stamped across the body.

ink bloodi am a thing of words and ink blood

and you, the proverbial book thief
albeit with loving intentions.

you bend my spine and gently crack me open
to the sunlight without asking.

for who gave you permission
to walk your fingers along every tale interwoven
through my vertebrae?
to have your eyes
browse each piece of my nonfiction,
where the day and night have kissed my brow
and ran me through in equal measure,
as if i were truly an inanimate thing
of pages and dust?

under your scrutiny i am no longer a volume
left face-down and dusty beside the armchair
by the window,
unloved by hands and falling prey
to the patient gluttony

summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
i. summergirl,
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
surefooted smile.
ii. you have grown
so fast.
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
perched treetop,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
summergirl, th

SeashineSacred skin
where heavens and ocean
collide,

an imprint on salted lungs
an echo

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

ropehang me from the moon,
i want to be beautiful

MelpomeneHear her sing of sun-kissed,
heavy-lidded tragedies that roll
off her tongue as sweetly as
sugared violets and as naturally
as nightfall; but bruise the lungs
of those who breathe them in.

She is no poet's muse, but
these summer-drunk revellers
will never know better.

Whistle+++
i am the wicked edge of ricochet,
the asphyxiation of dust
in a hummingbird's bones. skeleton,
i am silver, grass torn hollow
by a child's breath. corkscrewing,
my veins etch true reflections
on time's skin:

a cardigan crumpled
like a child. Blue
and torn in half.
---

north pacificAudio version thisaway.
icewater and tumblestone beaches, and i wonder, clifftop,
if the fog tastes like forest.
the ocean carves its histories
in the driftwood--creation stories and
lullabyes worn smooth,
bleached to a polish.
it might be sand shifting but maybe--
maybe i can feel the whalesong,
low and deep
thrumming in the hollow spaces of my bones.
i envy the seabirds
who have more room to feel.

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

Urban Evisceration     there is a thundering of one hundred buffalos-
the metro awakens
          and stampedes across the pre-cast
                                   terrains of my intestines
welders busy mending on one end
   cutting on the other
          surgeon handed precision and each moment costing another man's life

Whiteoutyou taste rust on your lips
a rush of light to the eyes--
and they crowd there
like unwelcomed guests

desert ranges, white cotton
unfurling under your fingers
your hand
though it refuses to move
reveals impressions,
depth of skin and warmth
heat really, permeating
as though it had been there
for hours

she left an afterthought
of sunflowers
sitting placidly on a table
lacking sun or shine

though it blinds

you never really understood
the nature of sunflowers--
following the sun all day
and bearing its name
(a metaphor for obsession?)

so you think about the girl,
the madly blooming flower
and what you meant to her

the o

ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency:

i.
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light

ii.
are recalcitrance / and you
are convergence

& - a fingernail of summer
- a melting of rain
- a crown of flowers
- a priest of sunsets

(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi? )

iii.
I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.

syracuseListen to the audio version for the full effect, pretty please.
cloudshot sky like an oil painting and i am watching the
seagulls. i--
darling, i will swim for you
and swallow every whitecap.
i will pluck myself a coat of pelican wings,
sew them up with salt and spray--
become icarus for you.
you are calling me across the waves, love--
but you pull against the ache
in my bones, the hollow--
the clawing out for unseen sunsets and unturned tides.
i hear you, love
give me time.
i will always listen.

why we cannot sleep at night.i.
we have grown so accustomed
to wearing our masks
and yet
we still wonder why
we feel
so
alone.

ii.
the night sky
is calling my name
and i find that
i cannot close my eyes
because
my corneas are stars
and i'm falling
like coins-
rusted and fading,
forever switching owners
forever out of place

iii.
(sometimes
i think,
loneliness is a disease
and
the world is infected.)

mosaics.sometimes unique
is not loud;
or bright, alive and raging,
possessed of a hunger for the atypical,
up front and too close,
or thrice-pierced and drenched
in the rebellions
particular to the latest generation.

sometimes it is a girl with
mouse brown hair and eyes
the color of weak tea,
who stands with her schoolbooks clutched
to her chest, in uniform shades of grey-blue
like the midmorning autumn sky

who has a wide mouth prone to nervous smiles,

pale lips and pale cheeks
and words that don't always come out
the way she means

who holds the universe
in the intricacies of her fingerprints
and laughs in treble clef notes
and u

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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.

The Rainfall KidThere are raindrops on his fingers—a glistening cluster of perfectly silver droplets that read like some shining, ethereal roadway map—the night that he comes for her with the thunder of a summer storm rolling forward on his footsteps. The low rumble of it jolts her from a book induced slumber, the cover rough beneath hands and the jumble of last-read letters blurring on the underside of blinking eyelids as rain begins to fall. Although it's almost been longer than memory will allow, she knows that there is no mistaking the sudden upheaval of the outside world for anything other than his arrival—after all, it hasn't stormed in

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.)

Stormingi.    Summer rain fingers
      quietly trickle down cheek
      bones and window panes.

ii.   Eyes darken into
      shadows until morning light;
      the tempest remains.

Lion HeartIt is building up deep within her fragile body like a heaving monsoon forming over the dry, cracked, heavy heat of an African savannah; an unforgiving and all-consuming storm desperately willing to drown out its less than fleeting welcome. Flickering with ceaseless coils of skin-searing energy like a grey-faced fugitive's adrenaline stricken heartbeat, it is not a bringer of life, but a threat to it—and even the most reckless are hardwired to take flight in the face of such a colossal and uncompromising foe.

Beyond these white-washed walls, the world would have her believe that she is brave, a lioness, an exception confronted

FeatheredHer angel wing hair,
splayed across her back, will catch
her as she falls (flies).

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Sky Eyes

by *Concora, Sep 11, 2012, 5:21:17 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

Desert 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.

Sky Eyesby *Concora

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

The blindness of blue, blue eyes.

-

Featured:
Here by #WritersInk
Here by #LITplease

Thank you both so much!

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~black-fire-dragoness Mar 20, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

I like that one a lot because there is some sort of tension in me when reading it. Perhaps because of the words "storm" "vein""desert"and the whole third part is chillin. Beautiful!

*Concora Mar 20, 2013 Writer

Thank you so much.

I'm glad (well, not glad, but you know what I mean

) that the heaviness I felt whilst writing this has translated through. Thank you, once again.

~disrhythmic Oct 27, 2012

So beautiful.

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

I got chills.

*Concora Oct 28, 2012 Writer

Thank you (once again!) for taking the time to read this. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

~disrhythmic Oct 28, 2012

*halcyonshores Oct 19, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

This is Gorgeous.

*Concora Oct 19, 2012 Writer

Oh, thank you.

*halcyonshores Oct 20, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

=LadyofGaerdon Oct 17, 2012 Professional Writer

Hi! You have been featured by The Favorites Project at #LITplease!

*Concora Oct 19, 2012 Writer

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Sky Eyes

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