Titania Sterl
Bio
Stories (9/0)
Tobacco Stain
Under her bed, she peeked around at the room and her plan: open window, cloth hanging from the ledge with items hidden or knocked over as if they had been packed away in a hurry. Jerking at every noise, she covered her mouth, reminding herself that this was an old house and not every sound signalled a meaty hand, fingers blackened over time, stained with tobacco. However, the next creak cautioned exactly that, with unsteady footsteps stumbling up the stairs.
By Titania Sterl7 months ago in Poets
The Hollow Man's Gifts
Holding the sky until the world fell first so the future can weep at daisies; He stands adamant - No disbelief at the cloudy weight or the disappearing surface, And strong he stills to stone no struggle to be heard, but they knew as we did The marvel of this pure pillar. An invisible noose for a pawn, translucent and unaware of touch Only honest will. Not him but the rest, Struggle through the midnight march and toil in the angel land with the promise choir, - All thoughtless prayer, - But our saviour stony and perpetual, For no immoral wish infects this soil, as future understands. With no plan to question or youth to challenge, this is as constant as his inner ache. Growth in viny decoration sustains hope that comes with life - In stony reverence our saviour still. And gone our saviour still as we ascend, crawl to icy skies And he our saviour still, wears those shackles ours. No moon with a thousand eyes or a sun with a thousand ears can dare or summon But he with no guilty mind sings our melody. This gravel fills; Weak at our knees with lungs of war, we echo And there - Where is our need to cry for he our saviour still, with his stony embrace, And we only breathe life into a warm aura. If only this luck with tender descent would remain free of the ages But here our life still reigns supreme, with stars and seasons hiding their paths Though we immutable, in this we pray. With this paper crane and he, we ride and to future he delivers Who but he, our saviour still, could sew these watery prayers in secure promise. We believe not in the convulsing form of the higher placed But the solid hollow frame to which we bind, Bear the ocean in the night to steer us to the life of angels, with no tide to swallow But our bright and stormy home. In visions of mountain entry he melts the light and carries us, our fear, And we grow - and with that life and hope Our saviour still.
By Titania Sterl7 months ago in Poets
Summer Sestina
Dancing with my mother in the living room are steps different to the ones I’d danced earlier that same day. Holding her close I sway to an exhausted beat. We live two different summers and embrace different colours but not as tight as she embraces me at dusk, cradling me so I can relive winter instead.
By Titania Sterl2 years ago in Poets
Bone and Cartilage
Guinevere was a sullen girl most would describe as a brooding bohemian, maintaining a strong resolve in her outlandish beliefs, yet possessing none of the same passion for herself, instead holding herself to the same standards as the cobwebs covering the rusted lock on her front door: filthy and forgotten. Of course, those are the ideas bestowed upon her by the many intruders trampling in and out of her life, fleeting and only using her for her traditional skills and taking special care to make sure they only left behind absolute destruction. It was an unbidden secret in the town of Nodum Lí, that the silent siren housed in the cottage hidden amongst the forest trees on the outskirts of the town and its people, so as to not disturb the skyline, had probably mothered over half of the children amongst them. She herself knew it to be true, but had no desire to entertain the idea of socialising with the townspeople any more than she was required to.
By Titania Sterl3 years ago in Fiction