Why weep when warm winds wander?
Why wonder where whispered wishes went?
When wild wanton wantings
welcomed wilted wastelands,
Would withered wombs wake?
About the Creator
Sandra Matos
I write so that people will remember me. I make art for the same reason. I had a mother that I never knew. Who she was, how she smelled, or what she valued. I don't want anyone to wonder who I was.
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More stories from Sandra Matos and writers in Poets and other communities.
Delicious Nightmares
There is nothing novel in the observation that a good cinema experience is akin to a waking dream. We sit in darkness and become enveloped in a world of images that we piece together to form a narrative. Sometimes the images overpower us and we struggle with the paralysis of a nightmare. And then the lights come back up and we take a breath to remember it was not real, we were not in that car crash, we were not in a fight, we were not a lover being romanced. And we need a moment between the last credit and the real world to gather our thoughts to find meaning in what we have seen.
By Rachel Robbinsa day ago in Writers
Comments (1)
Great poem!