All AlongSo morose I go, but I don't know where I'm going.All Along by Lisolette-Anwe
Violating cold, slipping under all the coverings.
There is nothing more,
more is what you wanted.
I'd offer up my soul,
but I lost it long ago.
There can be no one who can save this shattered being.
I am being childish, this nonsense irritating.
Carefully I move,
there is movement all around me.
Looking out for the only one,
the only one who has ever found me.
Calling voices fall, fall on ears that cannot hear it.
Falling all along,
though I never knew it.
Lone PrimroseIt's so barren hereLone Primrose by Lisolette-Anwe
I'm alone, I'm alone
lonely, it's so cold here
I'm all grown, grown alone
My vine, has been cut down to the roots
I'm alone, cut and cold, roots exposed
if this isn't the end, then what is
the frost is coming down, rolling in
I'm alone, I'm alone.
it's so dark here, where the frost dug in,
My petals fell long ago when I'd been handeled
My throat was bear left to be torn
cut, my roots exposed
Waltzjust one dance, three twirling stepsWaltz by Lisolette-Anwe
curling fabric in the sweeping sheaths
gentle pacing down the corridor
back and forth We go
one dance, two breaths, three sliding steps
wrapped in tighter to the hurricane pace
shivering breath, the soft heat
curling over My lashes
Saplingethereal arms slowly encircle the dark saplingSapling by Lisolette-Anwe
hot breath escaping slender lungs,
fog blasting into the cold like rampant fire
tensely rolling toward the core,
shimmering in that icy air
oil-slicked bubbles to capture in Her locks,
the jewels that fell from Her eyes
She cries for Him, no jewels from His eyes,
but the emeralds themselves
to look, is to be cut
the fog curls deeper in,
a binding thickness to hold within
smother the limber form, the sapling bends
The MessengerThe sun, filtered to clotted cream yoghurt through early morning haze,The Messenger by AbCat
hasnt yet dried the grey dew, which I flick with white boots leaving
a ski-trail from the patio to the files of bees, whose murmurs
jog me back to an infant school assembly before the hymn.
My bees, quite used to me, take two squeezes of smoke
in this wet chill to appease their erinaceous slumber,
Kitchen TableWe wake with ashKitchen Table by Attesa
under our lids,
this cloud could be eternal,
drifting bits of solar discharge-
stalling the execution.
Thick air translates
strung like spiral cobwebs
rooted in our cheekbones
beads of cream dew
and the wires
The Bends is tapping into
our fossilized amnion
and my pores won't stop taking it in
as my ears
won't stop breathing it in.
rip up my feet
and place them
chilled and crushed
under the house,
with no spoons left
to scrape at
the foundation is swallowing us up again.