ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
It's a spider's favorite scarf.
The one she keeps on the back of the closet
Amongst old cattails, a loose thread
(Her first attempt at a hangfly's knot)
And a sack of roast chestnuts, brown as
Chocolate and flavored with nutmeg.
It's also a child's secret portal.
Looking through the knots
You see tidal waves crashing into silver cliffs;
The petrified string glitters
Like a crystal bee's sting.
It may be the leftover dream
Of a tadpole as it grows into a frog.
Old friendly turtles who grow distant,
Move to the other side of the pond,
And when you're just beginning to think
That they were never your friends...
They show up with a lily pad for a hat
And a bushel of dragonflies for lunch.
The last reminder as you grow up,
A secret childhood memento that you never could part,
Or maybe, just the lingering doubt
Knowing you don't really grow "up"
You grow, older
But nevertheless, shining
Like gossamer.
The one she keeps on the back of the closet
Amongst old cattails, a loose thread
(Her first attempt at a hangfly's knot)
And a sack of roast chestnuts, brown as
Chocolate and flavored with nutmeg.
It's also a child's secret portal.
Looking through the knots
You see tidal waves crashing into silver cliffs;
The petrified string glitters
Like a crystal bee's sting.
It may be the leftover dream
Of a tadpole as it grows into a frog.
Old friendly turtles who grow distant,
Move to the other side of the pond,
And when you're just beginning to think
That they were never your friends...
They show up with a lily pad for a hat
And a bushel of dragonflies for lunch.
The last reminder as you grow up,
A secret childhood memento that you never could part,
Or maybe, just the lingering doubt
Knowing you don't really grow "up"
You grow, older
But nevertheless, shining
Like gossamer.
Literature
the ghost
I don't know what I'm waiting for,
because I am a ghost and yet
I sit on my hands and wonder
where you've been -
I walk the forest in circles,
the methodical crunch
of leaves beneath my feet
and I remember
that you made me feel small,
and alone. here I am, facing
this brilliant hue that is me and myself
and I am the ghost but somehow
you are haunting me.
Literature
The Streets Looked Different
The streets looked different, And the winds they didn't howl, Every single step I took, Was coupled with a scowl. And the streets felt different, They lost all memory, Somehow.
Literature
Quiet
One day
I woke up to the sound of breaking.
The fire was outside my window
And the smoke streamed in over my head
And the sirens, oh, the sirens
The red and the blue and the red reflected
On grey and black and grey and death.
I thought about how my heart
Had ached and my lungs had burned
And I closed my eyes.
One day
I woke up to the sound of stillness.
The needle sunk in my wrist
And the blurriness clouded my vision
And the beeping, oh, the beeping
The red and the black and the red smeared across
The white and grey and white and nothing.
I thought about how my mind
Had ran and my muscles had atrophied
And I closed my eyes.
One day
I woke
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
Written for the afternoon and the feeling of growing without having to get older.
© 2012 - 2024 TheGlassIris
Comments10
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Lovely I like the images this provokes