Category: Prose
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of memory.
I am dream-bound to the weeping mother of an ocean shore, my shadow is darker than the prose tree of mind and desire a prospect of inner lunacy and death;
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death in the ocean.
Death in the ocean only comes once upon the prose tree in my mind, there is a darkness in the lithe stillness of autumn oaks now gone, as olive flowers; a fantasy heartless
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out of reach.
A wish, these solitudes in dark wept, midnight exits in a dream, torturing you; emerges in oceans, as if the face of the sea-light is in a trance of wander, a dark mind urges
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“I’m Leaving Everything To You” by Helena.
We both had enough of bad memories. And every time we try to create a happy one, what you did keeps to knock me off. I lost my grip and therefore, you lost me.
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Grandfather. (Prose)
Sometimes I wonder who you were, what kind of person you were. You were my father’s father. You are dust now. You are in the death of an ocean well.
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“Fear, Light, and Liberation” by PatBunny.
This is the power of self-esteem, which is stronger than the outside confidence you radiate. (Because confidence comes from other’s judgments about you, and self-esteem comes from your own judgement of yourself.) Your fear evolves around your own judgement of yourself, not others, as many mistakenly think.
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“A Clock without time” by Vinisha Panwar.
It was fine Living with a peace of comfort Each and every day with time Running out to please everyone In a nice cosmic yet real display
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A dream suspended from sanctuary.
The partition of light slides upon the red, pale rocks shielded by the cluster of streams, a fossilized hue of the starlight in the refusal of blustering dreams. A mere smudge of waterlogged forbidden Arcadia—tasseling a present vanishing in exile a solemn midsummer darkness prowling the streets in your memory.
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Valhalla. (Prose)
It is in the beige evening by the willows and a café restaurant with the golden leaves and their shards on the grounds, covered in a cleansed rain. It is in the illumination of shatters that broke beyond the pale sky that not only writhes among itself, but will be only among a frail sight like memory, a seed into the dead fruit of tree.
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In The Stars.
For the present, memory is rattled by the sorrel sobs that do not quell from my bleeding lips And I, now enclosed, in the flowers and darkened furnaces that blemished on my pale skin, I do not know, nor do I remember, but it is through the ashes in my weary palms, On the ghoul traces of wind that says to me, ensconced, “Slicked through the tears of the dark clouds with wraith-like fires upon a weak soul, The wind shall hear no name…
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Morning Snow. (Prose)
I feel the strangeness of the fire arose from the bejeweled brooks, and faded, golden rivers, strung by the heat, I wander as the ocean meets the shore and I go into the peaks of the world
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Perfume Loring…. (Prose)
Perfume loring, turning, hedged to the twitching, to the crying moon like sutler, silk drowns muses flesh and bone, stitches on fatty quilts, wanting warmth, muttering, muttering through whispers, begged by praying hands, I hate this place.
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A Night Walk. (Prose)
Pennies and old skeletal-like lining threads slip out from the rafters of the grey old well in the mall—search in for the coin, fiddle with it, the dirt croaks under nails, like the bridal hem that touches the base of the floral steps, patterned by the picturesque; rib of man; “leave a stone at my feet.”
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I’ll Keep. (Prose)
my torrent of blood flourishes like a blue weeping violet, rock-strewn to the near hill-side at midnight; I pardoned myself to the wall flowers as the wind vanishes above the chimneys with the grotesque sticky saps on the creaks of spotted ghosts
Pseudopsychosis. 