Tag Archives: stars

Space Repose

It means nothing that the stars keep staring

Infinite sounds of galactic hymnal menacing

Knocking on the doors of a supernova home

Under black holes and leptons, lonely I roam

Planets stumbling, rings blot out of existence

Forgotten will-o-wisps glimmer with presence

I’ll sleep soundly on a constellation hammock

Let lights guide my dreams to universes amok.

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eleven:eleven

make a wish

a fated kiss

four eleven

listen heaven

make a wish

whimsy bliss

again eleven

chime broken

make a wish

hopeful hiss

strike eleven

now and then

make a wish

never to miss

eleven eleven

faith stars even.

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Glass Stars and Warm Skin

The glass stars crumble to sand every night

Fall on your skin like cool raindrops might

It cuts and maims, yellow aegean scintillate

Until you are a universe, cosmos constellate

It wasn’t facile to achieve your quaint glows

You bled life away before it shines thorough

The glass stars sparkling in a showering light

Your body tasting stardust like the sky might.

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[R/L]oss

I’m losing a perfect thing

Past the pastel cracks glaring

Those western eyes were once mine

Now only concrete I could define

Distractions, cold stars on my skin

The sunset whispered words again

Life wasn’t a movie, I got scared

I’ve taken measures not to be prepared

Drag the motivation it burns away

Chafed like elbows on mannequin display

I’m sorry, the phrase casually bland

But there’s no proper way to understand

Chekhov’s gun pointed in my throat

It used to be my sole source of hope

Now it hunts me like a pack of vampires

The situation is a demon, black eyed and dire

I’ll always keep it, I’m afraid to lose this universe

The thought of freckles is such a blessed curse

On a flimsy canopy, past the bed I’ve made

Please don’t let it fade, please don’t let it fade…

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Lost in Twilight

I’ll find repose in new ways
Though I haven’t slept in two days
‘Cause cold nostalgia chills me to the bone
But drenched in vanilla twilight
I’ll sit on the front porch all night…

~*~

The horizon is on fire, and the sky is a silver ocean

Rippling in flames, liquid sluice in delicate motions

That sun is a pyre requiem, extinguishing the moon

Mine sweetheart dawn might blink back quite soon

The stars are singing, they’ll spare you a goodnight

Pray for umbra lullabies’ charm to return their lights

The horizon dwindling down, the pacific sky recedes

Colliding with chromatic, every colour you’ll perceive.

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send in the sparks

solace of the sun

saturated in hues

songs of disaster

scents sensuous

sands of the time

spiralling spastic

salvation of soul

stars synonymous.

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nothing to do and scream at the drunken moon

you can

light up

the stars

with your

calming

and warm

calliope

voice,

but your

throat, it

got tired

and you

ran out of

songs to

serenade

us with…

and now

the moon

weeps as

i repose

fitfully

under a

lightless

night sky.

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cold empty mattresses and falling stars

gilded honey

cascading

over sulphur

hearts and

severed hands;

sweet like

almond milk

yet rancidly

sour like

painful lust

.

i hope i don’t

scare you off

with my talk

of dislodged

clean limbs

that i plucked

within the

undergrowth

of my ribs,

tonight, i run

.

i love the

thought of

your germane

affliction,

the shade in

your eyes

speaks like dust

through wind

and i chase

for the ocean…

.

and if i don’t

make it home

before the

horizon screams,

kiss me and

hope that

you won’t be

embarrassed

by the attention

of the moon.

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Cosmic Band-Aids

The coalescing Seattle twilight was an interplaying illusion of dusk and haze, warm colours replacing the pastel skylines, only to be painted over by the deep indigo eventide. The local rustic town café was already closing up, and they barely had time to finish the last bites of their chocolate bonbons and sip the remaining drops of their hazelnut vanilla frappé, before the intermittent barista ushered them out—quite literally, with a tremulous hand and an apologetic jilted demeanour. Now they stood outside the establishment in introspective reverie, dimmed bronze sodium streetlight the only solitary light source that resiliently pierced through the caliginous melancholy.

She was a blushing rose, liquid and pale, every infinitesimal detail somehow magnified to be remarkably interesting. Fragrance of baby’s breath and frankincense, posture of a regal and sophisticated monarch, delicate face as that of an angel’s glimpse of paradise, personality of an intricate vintage lock and a million exploding suns. Her companion, admittedly, was a person of less enigma, yet was still a character of significance, an oakwood branch, roughly-hewn and intense, simple yet charismatic. That svelte and cheeky-looking fellow had untidy coffee-tint hair, a discursive ironic smirk, an insouciant slouch, and a steely glint that, more often than not, signalled trouble.

As the fog and the regent shadows further intensified, the pauses and discomfited silence between them further attenuated. Moments passed. Her candyfloss-pink sundress fluttered like a jaded butterfly as she tucked a frayed bookmark behind her seashell ear, and her taciturn companion watched her intently, like an engrossed pawnbroker. Without permission, he began to remove his worn tan overcoat and gingerly placed the article over her cool shoulders, still warm and cosy by his own body heat. Flustered by the uncalled attention, she turned away to brush a stray raven hair back into her gossamer tufted bun, and lost grip of her book of poems, fragile pages yellowed and dogeared with age. Sylvia Plath’s ancient anthology dropped with a soft thump right side up, opening uncannily on the centre page containing Mad Girl’s Love Song, and both bent down and fumbled clumsily to pick it up in haste.

Fingers tangled. Glances exchanged. Blue eyes collided with green. Hands clenched. Throats choked. Hearts skipped. Breaths hitched. Souls shattered. Their blueberry-strawberry swirl ice cream melted absently like calligraphy on the pavement. The book now lay abandoned and forgotten, its unspoken poetry dancing alongside the breeze. No words were whispered. None were necessary. Overhead, the last of the brimstone shades faded away, and incandescent stars splashed the darkness of the falling sky. Below, firework eyes showered sparks, and skins intertwined. Witnessing it all, hiding behind the wisps of pewter clouds and overlooking the nocturnal planet, the glowing moon quaintly smiled.

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Spectral Painter

I’m the ghost you pulled out your throat

An amicable host painting lonely coasts

The nights appear deadly and serpentine

But that won’t cease my brush turpentine

I won’t forget to include the sunset colour

If you reverse and fall, I’ll sketch the hour

Hold my canvas for me against their edge

If I finish, I’ll hang it with stars on our bed.

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