The platinum waves
curl in, crash and crumble.
A fleck of spray
lands on my lip,
(the Earth’s spittle).
Wind blows my hair
into a frenzy.
Can you feel it, Little Bean?
Feel the tide rocking,
the stones humming.
From the safety
of your cell, your shell,
Can you feel it?
The road full of fallen
branches and stones.
Bare skin of toes
Pierced
by jagged shards
of wood and flint.
Though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
that clawed at my throat,
threw my hair up to the sky,
howled down the canals
of my ears,
I walked on.
Steady purpose burning
between my eyebrows.
Read More »
She waited.
As one can only do when one is alone and quiet.
Waited for a story to come,
for the last shrill tear of the seagull’s call.
Waited for the final shred of warmth
from the autumn sun’s rays.
In the silent, stirring, yearning depths of herself
an unheard song like a hushed whisper
called for some magic to weave itself into a spell
that danced on the page.
She felt nourished by tales of wizards
chased by shadows
and turning to hunt the darkness
with a staff bleached in light.
And she longed to tell a tale
not unlike those she poured over;
thinking that maybe in that
lay the quenching
of her soul’s thirst.
roshnii 