I have stored my unshed tears
in my system, unacknowledged,
running them through my veins,
watering down my blood.
I’d rather drown in my own tears
before I let you see me cry.
I do not trust anyone with my frailty.
A look in the mirror tells me
my wings look a bit
dishevelled, worn by wear
but I can’t help myself,
I so love to fly.
I throw myself into the wind
with arms widespread,
flying in the wild, crazy patterns
I never dare to follow
when I’m on the ground.
I will not avert my face
but allow the airstream’s
full frontal pressure to hit me
until I‘m barely able to breathe.
© november child
photo credit: Pam Link via Flickr
Pattern
The altar towers above her
as she genuflects
and feels the pumiced floor
connecting with her knees.
Her bristly grey hair shirt
feels as thin as satin
even though it is worked
from the coarsest linen.
The front of her shirt
is sodden with holy water,
drenched in an effort
to wash off her sins.
A veil of frankincense
chokes the air, almost tangible,
clouding her senses
as the chill of the floor tortures her skin.
She sets down the candle
watching the viscous flow
of molten wax touch the ground,
then raises her eyes to the enamelled cross.
Her saviour’s angular features seem waxy
beneath the barbed crown,
devoid of the reassurance
she is craving to receive.
She prostrates herself,
ignoring the prickly discomfort,
as her feverish forehead
touches the icy rock.
Her hands rest in the deep clefts
moulded by thousands of hands
that touched the tiles before her,
leaving marks of devotion on the ground.
She will remain there
in rigid determination,
a malleable, devoted tool for her God,
unwavering in her faith.
Waiting until again she hears
the ethereal melody of the holy choir
reminding her of her duties
to dauphin and country.
© november child
photo credit: Jim O’Connell via flickr
in response to: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle Special Addition Touch “August 29th, 2016”
pumice/sodden/waxy/angular/cleft/prickly/bristly/malleable/coarse/satin/rigid/feverish/barbed/viscous/tangible
Melody
Slight movement of the bushes
like a soft wind blowing.
Big paws parting the grass,
not a sound breaking the silence.
Yellow eyes watching the prey,
nothing escapes her notice.
Muscles twitching
with every elegant move
as she patiently closes in,
her body stretching
for the onslaught,
her strategy already laid out.
Watch her, fear her,
never underestimate her,
the fierce protector of her cubs.
A duty born of love,
she will let nothing hurt them.
Run, pull back fast
to save your pathetic little life,
she is already on to you.
She will destroy anything
considered a threat,
collateral damage
means nothing to her.
november child 