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ForestYou find a tree that reminds you of despair,Forest by ~DanielleWick
you curl up among the lost leaves, curve your spine
into the roots and go to sleep.
Not the quiet sleep of dreams --
the stubborn sleep of eyebrows crushed together,
the sleep that denies you used to love waking life,
the kind of stasis that makes you smaller with each passing moment.
Your body slows, your heart ticks away with each beat
but maybe you start hearing voices --
the woman who gives a body to your muse
whispers across the static about reflections of light off leaves,
that the tree only reminded you of despair
because it's all your mind would be reminded of at the time.
Waking up take
CicadaSummer is a cicada callCicada by ~DanielleWick
and light filtering through trees,
both pushing past the blinds to remind you
the world exists outside this twelve hour dreamscape.
Each little teardrop body vibrates with an admonishment:
"I spent this many years underground,
pushing myself into the dirt,
eyes wide and waiting,
and there you lay,
face slammed into pillow,
ignoring the enormity of time
because you somehow feel small."
The call stops, a breeze taps the shade aside
to tug curiously at eyelashes
and like two coquettishly laced wings,
they open without permission.
Slow BeastVines of tea unfurling under glass,Slow Beast by ~DanielleWick
electronic music bouncing in my eardrums,
plethora of fabric at my finger tips,
overcast day great for contrasting photos,
cool breeze asking me to bike through,
shelves of library offering a thousand plotlines,
two cats staring with curious faces --
and still, the bed seems most attractive,
sheets and pillows cooled,
mattress like a slow beast
carrying me off from worry.
SilveringThe passage of time doesn't occur to meSilvering by ~DanielleWick
like it used to -- now, I only notice
an inch of hair, the turn of a season,
the ripening of a hot pepper on a plant in the window.
It's startling, to say the least.
Soon, the passage of time will be measured
in a gray hair here, a new ache there,
a child I held during infancy
developing breasts and life goals.
The worst part of silvering is that I know
when those days open and close,
people I've known and loved
for most of my years on earth
will finishing dying --
these days of fire and speed and
hours whipping away like colors
past drunken eyes
will seem a pale memory of youth past;
a time when my
"An artist is a creature driven by demons. He doesn't know why they choose him and he's usually too busy to wonder." ♥
! (:
