Dear Darkness,
You’re not alone.
That heavy, numb feeling - pulsating through the air… I feel it too.
You’re not alone.
When people close their eyes, and demand to see light. They demand from me too.
You’re not alone.
The cold chill, brought not by you - but the feelings surrounding us, I feel it too.
We’re not alone.
I have a friend… she stings as I put her to my lips, and take a gulp. The warmth creeps in.
We’re not alone.
The voices in my mind - you can hear them too. Pulling. Begging. Pleading.
I am alone.
In the darkness I call home.
I am alone.
With regrets,
Me.
About the Creator
A Flower Song
Apparently the Aztecs, Toltecs, Chichimecs and other Mexica were crazy about poetry. Despite the book-burning, slaughter, and epidemics that characterized the early stages of the Spanish conquest of the empires of Mexico, some hundreds of poems from the height of their tradition come down to us in Classical Nahuatl, preserved by Nahua and Spanish scholars of the 16th century. One of the most famous poets, Nezahualcoyotl, was a sage-king who opposed the cult of human sacrifice associated with Tezcatlipoca, God of the Smoking Mirror, and favored Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. Flowers and feathers were the favorite offering of the Plumed Serpent. Moreover, flowers and feathers are a metaphor for poetry. Individual words, scattered petals, the down of tropical birds. The temples of blood sacrifice could be transformed into temples of flower and song. A sublimated offering to the Heart of Earth and the Heart of Sky encapsulated in the Classical Nahuatl kenning for poetry: in xōchitl in cuīcatl, meaning, "the flower and the song." The following poem is part of a longer work, and is in a state of flux, so take the waters as they flow:
By Rob Angeli3 days ago in Poets
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ELLEN MARIE
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ELLEN MARIE *** just had to know *** ++++++++++++ As Mike drove through the town he hadn’t seen in about twenty years, he wondered about those he’d left behind when he left for what he thought would be “greener pastures.” He wanted to make his mark on the world. Determination drove him and the little town of Meadowville wasn’t where he wanted to be.
By Margaret Brennan5 days ago in Fiction
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