When I was 18,
I had a dream that I could control water.
Yet I walked alone through the desert-
the sand whipping my power from every pore.
I turned to cousin twilight,
asking if she was aware
that her indigo soul would fade.
But she just smiled down at me,
as warm dusk poured from her throat.
It's hard to disagree with the joyous demeanor of one
who knows she will soon be forgotten.
Perhaps,
I should build a shrine for myself.
For what purpose, I don't know.
But I will soon also
disappear
into morning dew.
About the Creator
Sarah Langthorne
Because anyone can poet, right?
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Field of the Fallen
Sunlight danced softly across the frost-crusted fields, making the little blades of grass sparkle like emeralds. The faraway chirrup of a songbird was the only disruption to the quiet of the morning. An icy chill, the last vestige of the dying winter, clung to the air, settling in a thick white mist at the far side of the open field. The heavy stench of decay hung in that mist, punctuation by the sharp tang of freshly spilled blood.
By A. J. Schoenfeld7 days ago in Fiction
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