We've been scribbled in the margins of a story that is patently absurd
In the vast ether Time distorts and unfurls, laughs In cosmic dances
By Beth Sarahabout a year ago in Poets
Grandfather clock stands Proudly observing each Generation play Tick tock tick tock tick Clunk clunk clunk. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong.
Warm sunshine after A long winter. Moment to Savour like sweet wine
Scars faded with time But subtle imprints remain; Still they whisper
Steady moon, toys with Tides that push and pull all life: The cycle goes on
If walls could talk we would have an awful lot to say, particularly walls that have stood firm as long as I have. As it is, we cannot, and thus we remain silent witnesses to the endless occurrences that take place within our bounds.
By Beth Sarahabout a year ago in Fiction
The first breath Catelyn took felt different – the first real breath; the first one on the outside. It was laboured; harsh and heavy and bitter. By comparison, breathing inside was light and easy. She wished to return immediately.
Dear sister, I dreamt last night of your old Ford Fiesta. Silver. Back in the days when we had no responsibilities And we cruised around bowling alleys
Weeds spread freely in Liminal space. Sweet treasure Grows on the roadside.
From the top, the fields Become a patchwork blanket Of a thousand greens
Jagged silhouettes; The crowning crust of Earth’s crest Against bright sunrise
Powder on powder Thunders down: screaming avalanche. Then silence returns.