my fingers trace / against the stone my flowers do die; ephialtes / in the shadows of / a deathbed / baby’s breath / a dream / threnody / & breast my flowers die in my garden, / mouthing / pseudo-ashes of the moonrise. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. This piece was inspired by… Read More my flowers do die.
In their dying in their shadows I will see your eyes. As the blood-flow of living things, dear white shells and white bone fall into the ground, mama’s bony fingers whiten the earth, where all else fades and leaves; daddy glissades in the ice picking flowers for us all, and soon… Read More in their dying, in their shadows.
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; the clam’s mouth is lighter between the sun, into the silence of blue willows to the inmost bones of creation… Read More of memory.
Hello everyone. I hope all is well. Due to the amazing responses and suggestions I received when I asked what projects could be done in the future, I created a poll of them for you to vote on. I didn’t expect it myself to release such a poll this early on, but I figured the… Read More Next Collaborative Project Poll.
Stare at the ceiling, I am an afterthought, dreams cast forgotten memories in twilight’s tongue rivaling alone the silence of the world that pretends to be still, when it’s fucking not; I wake in the room alone, I intend to sleep; in weakness, the oeuvre is loneliness as it slips bloodily on begotten words undefined… Read More Forgotten (to silence).
A/N: This poem is dedicated to my mother, along with this instrumental I created to go along with it. I am adjunct to birth and death. Undraped, I emerge from womb—a pupa I barely cried, it was a spring birthday when it should have been an aqueous summer dream. Sense flees me before the world even… Read More Mother.
A/N: Another piece I wrote for an instrumental I created on Soundcloud. Check it out here. Early blooms rise at six axed in pale winter, a tumor of silence; in the white blossoms, fresh snow falls the night paradise lost into the womb and raid of memory, forgotten in the mist we entreat. A temporal… Read More Deadzone.
A/N: Wrote this piece for a soundtrack I recently created. You can check it out here on Soundcloud. rye blows in the wind we have waited hidden in the dead valleys, broken upon the strange pale shore, open in a blue vapor over deprived sense what do I feel? I want to forget it all. I… Read More Do you remember?
Hello and Happy Earth Day everyone. I hope you are all doing well and safe wherever you are. There is only one week left until my poem collaboration closes. The theme concerns of freedom, how it impacts you, and what it means to you. It is a collaborative effort from the WordPress Community to create… Read More Collaboration Poem Ends In One Week.
A feather lifts into the asters, Made known to the wind Teeming with a protestation Of what awaits to be quelled Eternally in this infinity, This sacrifice that slips from the dark, Settles into a river barely seen. Permeating from frosty caresses Sliding off the rock, And back into the cool, The bare of winter,… Read More Eternal.
Amber sunbeams stayed in my dreams; and I recalled whispers throughout our dark minds—autumn when our eyes met; The reverie of the cold entwines us in deferred reveries, in ambrosial shadows. The planet reaps Mosaic stars in backlit born reflections; we will plant a bowl of bluets by the fireside to recollect our love. ©… Read More Throughout our dark minds.
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… Read More Valhalla. (Prose)
Keep your dead lilies, Two reared seeds. And the crisp red triste Of a cherry blossom Grows by the peas, Of the blue afterglow On the sameness of his laugh. As red wallops stifled cicada wood, The epistle chokes in the water; it’s been awhile. Scurf of a half Frost; marked their caged, primped words… Read More Half-Frost.
A lit flame upon the stitched rag of shore, Which pales upon the blossoms of a winter rose, I think of a frail dream with Greek souls and song, That slightly breathed through the muted shore. When will it part? These cold rivers are of a marred red, And will discard to the faintest breath… Read More Frail River (A Wasteland).
Shadowed skies that plum. The heart of infants, a strum, Moved through bristles of walking wind Kissed the small valley dell, And I’d dwell through lonesome seas. I missed the dead tribunal moon, As it gazed above some deaf winds; Slipped through the river stream, With instant buds of a morning desire, And I’d wake… Read More Shadowed Skies That Plum.
(Must I un-wish?) The rash of the Hebrides, and its wrath, The son of lands, and lands amazed, That sheer a composition, in the fair hands, Of Mendelssohn that grown from the stems, And tendrils, furtive maelstrom in sound, And bearing without a formal syntax, (Must I un-wish, and wish again?) Skins, music skins and… Read More Must I Un-Wish?
Gust, each upon the lot, and they tower And belonging to the night, the rhapsodic whispers. I had walked and walked, The faint air upon the dark, dark thin and frail lot; Midnight, and I bother, To think of such things, And I’ve only just begun as a wisher from the bare influence Of velleities,… Read More Of This I Find.
