new moon

leaving death of all silhouettes when the new moon born of lured tragedies outstretched to kill itself; the roots my shame winter of the flowers, if I loved, then they should fall to my feet in wastrel-fragility guiding memorial bones to the knees of the garden © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Reposted for the [...]

eyelids.

eyelids and a lie i stare the way footsteps slip in winters etcetera of the garden; the most frail are knifed apples of eve in my hands roots faces I hid because I’m a memorial now not the child with arias in my bones © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved. Written for the dVerse prompt: [...]

i hid from you all.

littlest rain it was not dead or the moon with her eyes the perfume asleep, having flowers to cease as i now subsume tragedy beyond the wisp of her lips phantasmagorical stillness yet adorns to me her eyes of stone. in the garden wore a death of bliss perpetuare suffering © 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights [...]

one more stone.

wholly lady i speak eating air beside, the tree whose blood of mine grew upon. like Medusa eyes of stone rolled under mine, I knew I had hid from you all; i could not stir the moon-thief in my strange dreams who knew the gives of i want, turning one more stone here is the [...]

In mind.

catalpa, heart-shaped and boney your daddy died years ago, in redress of his mind, where I leave my fingers on the stone, and I’ll never see him, he is just a rock he is just a worm; you’ve been in my mind but never knew me, I tire; death is half the stradivarius of the [...]

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.  This glow like an oil lamp through my window as I write on the anointed page, I thought of you tonight; a star-still night that [...]

Forgotten (to silence).

"Anger" by David Sutton. 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 [...]