Peace
Pt. I, Peace of Heart
Peace is not found in designed diversions,
losing reality behind a screen,
the escapist blue glow and
a closed bedroom door.
In halfhearted connections,
last night’s stranger, the one
who found refuge
on the empty side of your bed.
By masking a lifetime of wounds,
veiled behind habits and miserable evasion—no,
peace is not found in those
who are chronically immune.
In a dazed flat-back blow
to the barroom floor,
is peace found
in that fragile, fleeting numbness there?
Where is it hidden? So mysterious yet simple—
the peaceful respite where
life's oceans settle, brighten and clear?
In the gentle hope
a new sun brings, rising red dawn
through parted drapes.
In sunbeams settling on the face,
where the eyes that know, love and see her dwell,
In the calmest of certainty,
and in the relief of despair.
In snow-frosted drives up rising peaks,
warmed in knowing laughter and ardent melodies.
In a shared, knowing feeling,
during a song's brief, quieted interlude,
when eyes meet and linger, and she knows
that feeling of safety as yet withheld,
safely just being loved, just being herself—
there was her peace of heart found.
About the Creator
Emily Kitazawa
Just a curious observer of life, sharing what I think & imagine through written word.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
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