Category: Prose

Let it die.

Turn away from the resuscitations there the dream warrants the saplings, she in the lithology of life, the posies leach in mother’s touch, stands retracted in the tears from the ocean, weeping in the enchant as I feel the shame of the eventide; the last breath to the inhabited throes of the shore if swallowed in the vanity of torpor, a slumber to the … Read More Let it die.

“Letters From Her” by Kate.

Letters from Her: A Collection Female infanticide. The deliberate killing of newborn female children is a serious problem in India… This is a letter in a form of poetry from a girl who was killed and thrown in a trashcan by her parents. A letter written from a girl who was thrown into a trashcan – To all of you, I was dying. I … Read More “Letters From Her” by Kate.

“Fear, Light, and Liberation” by PatBunny.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves: who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. … Read More “Fear, Light, and Liberation” by PatBunny.

“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 Passions took a backseat while Dreams were lost in a world of Artificial love to their dismay Then an unexpected chain of events Told me to change myself or move Away for the love of self respect … Read More “A Clock without time” by Vinisha Panwar.

“Ophilia” By a.d.matthias.

Cecilia paused. She could never remember their names. Perhaps she is never told; perhaps she is made to forget. Briefly wondering how many have come and gone, she then decides that names are ultimately inconsequential, before lamenting sotto voce, “What’s in a name…” They are only labels. She’d been given many labels by the therapists, in their vain attempts to understand her. Sufferer of … Read More “Ophilia” By a.d.matthias.

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 … Read More Valhalla. (Prose)

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 … Read More In The Stars.

Morning Snow. (Prose)

Primordial of the language havocs the ghost, havocs the charring wood, as it hushes the daylight by the opaque fog above a motionless hillock, and 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, and its … Read More Morning Snow. (Prose)

Perfume Loring…. (Prose)

I. 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. Promise like a shadow pecked against the incant, restores like Lazarus. Crypts cites damaged; Similar to la mausoleum, lowering the prayer, but it is before sleep, … Read More Perfume Loring…. (Prose)

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.” The stunning sweet pressing hymn that folds neatly … Read More A Night Walk. (Prose)

I’ll Keep. (Prose)

At the flares of rivers, flames crackle studded and dead when they withdraw from the cold. The darkness recedes over the bejeweled haycocks crying, as 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 … Read More I’ll Keep. (Prose)