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The After

There’s a castle waiting for you

far beyond

what meets mortal eyes

our senses undone

Don’t you fret

the pain will end soon

There’ll be jesters in the court

and storytellers too

Your chamber will have

a most pristine view

guarded by a watchdog

when I’m not with you

The pain will sear now

Bear it, dear heart

but I must go now

’til death do us part

Angst

“Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald
Yesterday was National Survivors of Suicide Day, which I found out through To Write Love On Her Arms, but may everyday celebrate these survivors who went through so much in their struggles of indecision. So many lives are lost through words, words that can heal and be cherished, that can cause pain and bring death. TWLOHA is a non-profit organization trying to help those afflicted with depression, and they are currently raising money to set up a 24/7 online help center.
No one is alone. No one has to be helpless or voiceless. Nor does anyone have to be invincible.
* * *
She stares out the smudged window,
making fingerprints on the mud that stained the glass,
her breath mingling with the smoke
of the flames that burned inside her.
They coiled around her neck like a snake,
and her throat burned with fire,
those scathing words that bruised her arms and
tainted her spirit.
She reaches for a happy memory,
She is standing on her tip-toes,
but all she sees are blades.
And guns.
And shattered bottles, their contents
bleeding all over the floor.
The light at the end of the tunnel—
it’s fading.
Painted in dark red lettering are the words
E M E R G E N C Y
E X I T
And she takes it, and escapes
from the constant, dull throb of dissatisfaction with life
from the distinctive searing burn from each word, each blow
from the misery that had consumed her for so long.
The firefighters arrived too late.
The gravedigger arrived too early.
She did not see the bronzed leaves of autumn,
She saw dead trees.
She did not smell the earthy aroma of rain,
She smelled the salt of her tears.
She did not hear the laughter of her best friend,
She heard a man’s irritated yell.
She did not taste the crisp within the apple,
She tasted the metallic tang of blood.
She did not feel hope.
She felt the edge of a knife sever her from the material world.
And sever her from us.
* * *
Keep in the sunlight.
nevermoraven

 

Adieu (a declarative poem)

This poem is my entry for the Monday Poetry Potluck, I thought it had sort of a romantic, affectionate mood to it x3

Enjoy.

 

* * *

 

http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4037/4253198259_c3781460db.jpg

The train stole her.

It was a winter dawn that felt like a frosty evening.

Snow drifted towards the ground like flower petals.

He was in his thick army jacket.

She looked like a bandit, with a dandelion scarf bundled around her face.

He attempted to stuff another dollar into her pockets.

She promised to buy him the latest novels, a new coffee mug, and

maybe some tea.

The train tracks whispered.

The watch hands crawled past seven

And reflected onto their faces pale sunlight.

A streetlamp droned above them.

Then it fizzed out, showering them in snowflakes and sparks.

She caught a snowflake on her tongue, going cross-eyed.

He smiled.

Crystals melted on her tongue with a hiss.

A pale red train creaked into the station.

She made a dash for the door.

The conductor made a beeline toward the coffeeshop.

He hollered at the conductor, waving his arms angrily.

She picked herself off the ground.

Streetlights in the distance died.

She tugged at his cheeks in the dark.

Her breath swirled with chill, mingling with his.

He smelled like drugstore cologne, lemons, and gasoline.

The red train zipped over the horizon and fell.

They reveled in the silence, but for the

twittering of sparrows.

An old man sprinkled sesame across the snow.

She clapped for the moment and pulled out her camera.

He wanted a postcard, he asked for one.

She opened her mouth to speak.

The train shot past on the tracks,

Squealed to a stop.

The crows came, Scared the songbirds away.

She tucked her faux leather purse

behind her shoulders.

He hauled her suitcases into the train.

His arms burned with effort.

Her cheeks burned with cold.

The train stole her away.

He slept in the snow, his jacket was a cushion.

A wet nose smeared his face, his chapped lips.

She peeked out of the window.

The train plunged into the morning,

Steam snaking through the watercolor sky.

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