this is the game we play, my words and I: they hide, and I seek. describe me, I beg, pressing a hand to my antagonistic aching chest.
By Raistlin Allen4 months ago in Poets
breath frigid, stillborn; beyond the tattered veil a face like yours, but not.
rustling like the shells of discarded dead insects, your nails on my skin.
Moths aren't built for artificial light, which is why they slam their fragile, powdery bodies against the white hot glass of my LED lantern autumn
I was born with stories in my bones. Before I could read, I'd flip the pages of books for hours, staring. Before I could write, I would scrawl wild black squiggles on white paper, imagine a tale between the madding lines.
By Raistlin Allen5 months ago in Humans
The knock at the door shatters into my consciousness like breaking glass, making me sit up fast and grope around with wide eyes like I'm a blind person being robbed.
By Raistlin Allen5 months ago in Fiction
As a kid I lived in books in the words between the lines I loved the characters with souls that crook’d- neither devils nor heroes, but harder to define.
By Raistlin Allen5 months ago in Poets
all that’s living, come to die, explosion of fire under woodsmoke sky
in one woodsmoke breath summer dismembers itself, raining shards of flame.
It’s getting colder and harder to wake. the trees release their leaves and the neighbor’s chimes clang across the street when I find
The windows of the small coffee shop were clouded with condensation, so that the cars and people passing outside were blurred outlines on the opposite side of the glass.
By Raistlin Allen6 months ago in Fiction
I keep having this dream; let me tell you about it. . I am halfway down a city sidewalk, dusk dwindling to dark, and the heat from the street lamps warms my back.
By Raistlin Allen6 months ago in Poets