Morning dawns.
No longer is she endless, empty;
no longer does she blanket those
who rest their souls below.
Wave after wave, his warmth seeps
from his fingertips to her cheeks
flushed with colors of oranges and pinks.
She trembles, surrenders.
He reigns over her, this now beautiful girl,
the encasement of the world.
Thin streaks of gold, incandescent
bleed across her empty canvas.
The chill of the night unable to resist
the warmth of the sun so intense
from the cold damp of midnight
to the overpowering passion of noon.
Take him back, his presence hovers
the stars sleep in her hungry eyes
and his fire burns in her bosom.
Night falls.
Agony seeps from loving handprints:
remnants of his beautiful, fiery grip;
colors of pink, purple, and red
across her delicate flesh and
Earth is showered in her sadness.
Again, she is the endless, the empty.
Once more, she only blankets those
who rest their souls below
though she herself suffers the cold.
Wave after wave, his warmth depletes,
and in his absence, though she cannot see
she is just as beautiful without him,
just as beautiful as the black, rolling sea...
And if it weren’t for her, he could never, ever be.
About the Creator
Sara Wynn
Poetry is my language, and Earth is my playground.
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Salt
Mother, how do I know if I am free? You will feel the sting of it as it drips into your raw, exposed wounds. Around you, the air will reek with it as cliffs of certainties crumble, releasing it into new, unexplored seas. You will lick your dry, chapped lips and taste its bitterness while wiping streaks of it from your face. Your body will glow, and you will pant as it clings to you, cooling you, grounding you, taking you home to the dirt beneath the golden shores and green grass fields from which it is mined.
By Caroline Jane7 days ago in Poets
Masquerade Party
At six feet seven inches tall and approximately two hundred fifty pounds, Samael presented an imposing figure when he walked into a room. His physical stature may be impressive, but his demeanor is the opposite. The shy, some might say, reclusive personality that he developed as a young boy followed him into manhood. His favorite job was crunching numbers in a quiet one man back office of a fiduciary firm. He was always polite, greeting his fellow workers with a “good morning” or “good afternoon” as he walked to the back of the office where his little hideaway was located, but never tried to engage in conversations.
By Mark Gagnon2 days ago in Horror
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