But we feast on
cherries in the nightlife,
it's nighttime and the colors are blooming.
Bright red juice
stains our bare-foot feet
but we are humming
and dancing to a cherry-filled beat
and the darkness
it blooms with
flowers in the nightlife,
irises blooming in the nightlife,
The loveliest things seem to happen
when the night is so thick that
youre only a dream.
(and our world is drowning in cherries.)
The Beginnings of Ethan
Ethan Huxley was a street rat, and in his opinion there were few worse things to be. He'd had his fair share of suffering, too, so these words were not meant to be taken lightly. Being a thief was common. Degrading, especially for a prince. (Well, aspiring prince. Ethan hadn't worked that part out yet, but he was sure he was made to be a royal.) Still, he would rather steal than pay (he had no money), or god forbid beg, like some common pauper. No, Ethan still had his dignity, and as that was pretty much all he did have, he held on to it tightly.
As much as he hated being poor, being a thief did have its merits, one of which was that everyone ignored you. Ethan was thankful for this as he sat in some boxes at the mouth of an alley, eating a borrowed apple and surveying his (hopefully) future subjects as they went about their business.
woody green as pine
softening as time gives life
to her long lashed eyes
She averted her eyes when they brought him out to visit with her. She knew what she would see.
They hadn't given him the orange one, but rather the black and white one, covered with lines, dark, light, dark, light. Ugly.
She had the thought that maybe she was the only one who saw the world in color, knew that it wasn't just made up of the shades on his outfit. Black, white. Good guys, bad guys.
Her eyes found his feet and worked their way up, slowly taking in his uniform, the shiny jail number pinned to his shirt.
She looked away before reaching his face. She couldn't handle those pale brown eyes, scruffy beard, handsome face.Wasted.
music seems to float from the speaker like a bird,
free and soaring until it nests inside my chest,
building until I fly with it, high above all
fear and worry and hate, home.
of the end of the day
the sound of summer
rocks us to sleep
Spring peeks from the cold
of winter, delicate pink
flowers sprouting up
and sending their scent
across open meadows that
rustle with the breeze
sunlight filters through
the newly budding leaves and
places a finger
on a nest of small
birds that chirp and flap the
intricate wings that
long to be in the
air and flying high above
the vibrant pastures
Fear starts in the pit of my stomach, twisting and writhing, refusing to leave me alone. Tiny tendrils reach up, spreading like a wildfire that engulfs me and squeezes tightly, making it hard to breathe, limiting my air. Then I take a deep breath. The panic stops and I go back to my business as if it didn’t happen.
But I know that it did.