A touch of blankness on the heart is no friend of mine. And time will spread its wings and fly by and by and bye—goodbye. I've never known you still, and maybe I am shrill like the pitched farewells that many a soul will leave behind. There's no place for fortitude in a spiral reversing memory that won't last anyway, but anyway—I want to march through thickets and leave pieces of me behind, maybe those inklings will last through years like sands that refuse to wash away and they won't have to fly like time in erasing winds and say goodbye.
About the Creator
Andi Leigh
Poet • Novelist • Short Story Writer • Photographer • Cartoonist
Hello! I'm Andi. I enjoy writing poetry, horror stories, and general fiction.
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Yew Wood Doors
Before my eyes, a door is arranged from shadows—crafted of rich yew wood, inviting yet pressuring simultaneously—and I am hesitant to make contact with the brass knob and fall through to new shadows. I never do know if I can stomach mysteries that approach with such ease. Although I have to know what's there and when I look behind me, no candle beckons. I may hope the door will lock behind me. I know I have no key to return but perhaps one will glisten in the fog for me and I'll be allowed to open more yew wood doors on the other side.
By Andi Leigh15 days ago in Poets
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