My mom told me once
When I was still a teen, living at home,
That in college, she used to write poetry.
I asked if she still had it,
If I could read it.
She said that it was probably in the attic
Somewhere, off-handedly ,
Or that it might be forever lost.
Who knows?
I asked if she would ever write again.
"I don't think so."
I was a young poet,
And in many ways a young her;
I wondered if I would ever see the day
I couldn't remember the last time
I wrote a poem.
About the Creator
L
I bide my time between the reason and the rhyme,
Trying to sort the seasons and the signs.
Two Wrinkles In Time
It is pointless to run, my darling, because sixty seconds ago, I will kill you. My blade will have sliced reality open right in front of you. It will have first pierced it as it would a bed sheet left hanging to dry, flapping in the wind on a Sunday afternoon. But the metal will have drawn a line in the air that the ghostly tear will have followed. Then I, La Dyablès, machete firmly in hand, will have emerged from what your mind, at the time, could only interpret as the other side of here—whatever that means to you. I know. I have seen that look on the faces of countless unlucky… clients. You will not have been the first nor the last to try and reneg on a riches for soul contract only to present this visage to me when I come to collect.
By Lily Séjor5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Lovely work. It always makes one sad when their loved one isn’t participating in something important to you.