writing from current inspiration.blah.
Beauty For Spring
Current mood: melancholy
Category: Writing and Poetry
Who was she, this girl laying there? It was a question that continued to haunt her; the only answer she could come up with was a comparison. She looked up at the twisted, warped treetops above her. She was as mangled as they were. The formed a tapestry, a knot, a spiderweb of story. She too, had twists to her past, and in ways it affected why she lay there this moment. Life never turns out the way you think it will.
Allowing a single, salty drop to seep from her eye, she felt the cold, creeping sensation as it traced the ridges of her weary face.
She felt lost. Not knowing which path to choose, she considered her options. Wake up, put on a charade of pleasure, accompanied by a mask of smiles; cover her screaming soul. She could run. Far away, and never come back. But she was no coward. She faced her problems head on. The difficulty this time was that her problem was running away from her, and she wanted to catch it.
Deal with it.
End it.
But she was tired, and weary from running.
As she lay on the moist, sodden earth, she could smell the heavy sent of the woodland floor wafting up to her. It brought with it a small comfort, but not enough to dull the pain that was piercing her soul.
She wanted to sink into the earth and dissolve. But she got up, and left those memories where her body had been, leaving them there to dissolve in her stead, to fertilize the ground and help create beauty for spring.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Take me to the eye of the storm
To see the wind rush past
and the harried litter blow.
The rush of everything around
Take me where there is no sound.
Do they not know, do they not see
The crushed rose petals at their feet
Their cups of dreamy dole have spilled
The wind taking them off course
They view life as only something to complete.
Take me to the orchard,
Where the leaves of peace will sway,
Where birds will sing songs of life and
Water runs pure; unspoilt.
The petals are back on the rose
The wind will not blow them apart
Through all the petty disputes
And broken threads
All shall come together again
And this storm shall cease.
Current mood: melancholy
Category: Writing and Poetry
Who was she, this girl laying there? It was a question that continued to haunt her; the only answer she could come up with was a comparison. She looked up at the twisted, warped treetops above her. She was as mangled as they were. The formed a tapestry, a knot, a spiderweb of story. She too, had twists to her past, and in ways it affected why she lay there this moment. Life never turns out the way you think it will.
Allowing a single, salty drop to seep from her eye, she felt the cold, creeping sensation as it traced the ridges of her weary face.
She felt lost. Not knowing which path to choose, she considered her options. Wake up, put on a charade of pleasure, accompanied by a mask of smiles; cover her screaming soul. She could run. Far away, and never come back. But she was no coward. She faced her problems head on. The difficulty this time was that her problem was running away from her, and she wanted to catch it.
Deal with it.
End it.
But she was tired, and weary from running.
As she lay on the moist, sodden earth, she could smell the heavy sent of the woodland floor wafting up to her. It brought with it a small comfort, but not enough to dull the pain that was piercing her soul.
She wanted to sink into the earth and dissolve. But she got up, and left those memories where her body had been, leaving them there to dissolve in her stead, to fertilize the ground and help create beauty for spring.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Take me to the eye of the storm
To see the wind rush past
and the harried litter blow.
The rush of everything around
Take me where there is no sound.
Do they not know, do they not see
The crushed rose petals at their feet
Their cups of dreamy dole have spilled
The wind taking them off course
They view life as only something to complete.
Take me to the orchard,
Where the leaves of peace will sway,
Where birds will sing songs of life and
Water runs pure; unspoilt.
The petals are back on the rose
The wind will not blow them apart
Through all the petty disputes
And broken threads
All shall come together again
And this storm shall cease.