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Wings Of GraceWhen everything comes alive
a sweet song surround my heart
and beyond the sadness and insecurity,
I start to fly on the wings of grace
calling the name of Joy.
Hoping that generosity of the Universe
will caress my soul and gentle will touch my hand,
I let my emotions to spread in a special dance
and like a beautiful dream of the beginning,
the colors bloom in the mystery of an unreal light.
I'm still flying and without fear,
I feel my wings translucent like a dragonfly
and in my ears, a pale voice whisper:
"Never call my name again because I'm always with you,
as long as you are able to fly over your pain
and find the miracle of Spring."
BetrayalI gasp for air from all the lies
You force down my throat
And burn my lungs
The bitterness, the bile of betrayal,
The taste it burns my tongue
You spoke of sweet promises, you never would fulfill
You left me with wounds that may never heal.
I wish I had seen who you are in disguise,
before I let you leave me shattered with all of your lies.
You never tried to understand
That's why you let go of my hand
I miss the presence of your rose petals
But I prefer the absence of your thorns
I miss the presence of your golden soothing voice
But prefer the lack of wounds your silver tongue had torn
I am in stoic bliss with your ghost no longer here
I have severed my ties so I have nothing left to fear
These DreamsCurt tried to leave while Mom and Marty weren't home. I came downstairs late in the morning to find him in the kitchen with his suitcase on the table. He was trying to cram clothes haphazardly into it. Curt's guitar case was leaning on one of the kitchen chairs.
“Do you need some help?” I asked.
“No,” he said, not looking up. “Why is it any of your business what I do, anyway,” he mumbled.
I pretended that the jab didn't sting. “You're going to Chicago, right?”
Curt rolled his eyes. “That's the plan. Bus leaves in twenty.” He zipped up the suitcase and pulled it off the table. “I have a place to stay, don't worry. I'll find my way, sis.”
“I know.” I turned away from him and opened my wallet. Behind all my plastic cards there was a hundred dollars. I'd saved it just for this moment.
I faced him and pressed the five twenty-dollar bills into his hand. “You spent most of your money on bus tickets
AutumnThe leaves fall to the ground,
Their beauty sings to me,
The rain drop falls onto me,
Making my heart skip a beat.
I feel the wind pick up again,
Taunting me to stay,
I pick up a few leaves,
And I am sadly, on my way.
But I sing,
I admire every glance I get of this land.
For it is more beautiful,
Than Summer, Spring or Winter land.
fool's goldshe told me lies
wrapped in golden cellophane
with a heart of pyrite.
she gave me a necklace
for my birthday
with a sapphire pendant
and i have never worn it.
she told me
with her eyes
that it wasn't normal
to get chills when you're writing,
so i became numb instead
when that feeling of freedom came
and i trapped myself
she gave me joy
when i thought i'd been
all that makeup and beauty and fashion
In Every Seasoni.
This month, branches are outstretching
timidly, naked, shy of leaves. Autumn
is burning, the rich golds and twigs
snapping underfoot: a funeral pyre for every
late dawn and crisp, woodland scent that ever
trickled like honey down the throat.
when the ice awakens, colours have already
gone to sleep, tired from their all-year curtain call
of full bloom. powder falls, the stars are
shedding their skins, congealing in gentle dustings
on your eyelashes. you blink, and the dream is gone.
if winter is a sigh, spring is a gasp for breath:
rhythmic, unsure, but fully alive, as buds tremble
an ostinato in the breeze. tulips tenderly sing
lullabies to tiny green leaves, peeking with awe
out at a brave new world, straining to listen to
what will become a floral symphony, half dreams
and half oak and acorns.
when summer pulls on a garish shawl strung of
rose petals and water lily scents, the world
laughs, ricochets of mirth up to the atmosphere,
hot breath forming in clouds trailing
.my soul is still splattering blackness
at my brewing fate;
terror has my feet fastened to the stars
of the unforgotten, & yet my heart is
ready to bleed crimson for you.
I'm armed to love again,
you kiss with the faith
that was stolen from me.
The BloomShe was a typical
petite little seed.
Surrounded by beautiful periwinkles,
violets, orchids, daisies, lilies.
Taller than her.
Prettier than her.
But she bloomed
one very orderly spring evening.
Boy, did the garden go wild.
Three inches taller than last spring!
Liquid rushed through her roots.
Clovers would turn greener than usual,
Roses turned a deep shade of red,
She was changing everyone around her.
Perhaps her beauty was
too much to sustain.
Perhaps people hadn't noticed
how pretty she would turn to be.
She was the life of the garden,
and gardens have enough life already.
She didn't care.
She was now beautiful.
Tulips would occasionally steal some glances,
violets would stutter in admiration.
She was her own garden,
radiating floral vibes.
It was her choice.
wonders of wisteria
glowing in warmth
of soft spring lights
such beauty invites
calling me to life
breathing colors bright
winds wash over
with hues of new life
i hear her call
as winter rains fall
for now must stay
waiting for wisteria
for seasons song to sing
I'm missing Spring.
Photo and poem by ~ BridgetBright
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