Poetry is my language, and Earth is my playground.
I remember that old fishing boat with a hole in it--
the one that needed patching,
the one you laid up against that small, red brick house.
By Sara Wynn3 months ago in Poets
Slithering and slicing, moon-face mirroring,
bubbling, inviting secrets, whispering;
tell me: if I follow, how far will you take me?
By Sara Wynn6 months ago in Poets
I know you are afraid, my dear,
and right you are to be.
I know the world has not been kind;
I've seen what you have seen.
By Sara Wynn7 months ago in Poets
No matter how much we want ghosts to walk,
they do not.
No matter how much we project them on the walls,
no matter how much we want to feel their weight shift,
By Sara Wynn8 months ago in Poets
Saccharine Scythe, thank you for pruning me;
savagely setting the snakes out to sun,
shaking the fragrant shadows out to run,
You set me on fire,
but, I burned too brightly,
and I went up in smoke.
Alit with desire,
but then, I choked
Frames of lighthouses and oceans move;
the sun crawls orange across the room.
Split curtains cut the bleeding light;
red cardinals sing sharply outside.
I will not survive you again,
I cannot risk it.
You're like a knife to my wrist.
I will not survive you again;
you're so fucking twisted.
alluring amorous audiences,
accentuates abridged acromatics,
assuaging adrenaline afflictions.
Ambiparous Atropa attackers
among an Aconitum arrangement;
alluring Absinthium and Asters
accompany aforementioned agents.
If I died, would you see me then?
Maybe then, you'd treat me like a human?
Do I have to die to see you again?
I'm dying to see you again.
You were supposed to be my husband,
and I have been through such hell since.
I'll never believe any promise,
chained alive in your absence.