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Literature Text
My mind is a silver blade that slices me open
without shame, a tourniquet I tried to fashion
from my nocturnal scrawl of letters shaping
words, I tried to write myself a new existence
as the Night spilled her ink across my pages-
but the souvenir Stars blurred my vision until
all I could do was cry-for what was never fully
healed and my wounds again unsealed, they throbbed
beneath their frail black lace stitchery, my heart
was sliced and skewered into several bloody pieces,
but from its slaughter the Light shone even more
purely in the Dark, though others may wonder how
can this be-how can such fractured pieces shine?
I know that I have always been what I write.
I feel myself being pulled under the indigo plumes
of Night-a submersible sigh drifting without a shore
-a page lost before it could be bound within a book
as ornately green as a cicada's wing...so have I been,
searching for a way to exit this existence before
my pen runs dry and my heart finally dies from knowing
too much daylit grief and not enough twilight relief,
oh why can't I be happy? Is it because Happiness is
a butterfly spilling color in the humid breeze with
the fragile flutter of her wings? Or is Happiness
a fairy as short-lived as an idea out of sync to this
life? These sundried thoughts awaken the Moon in me
to shine as I cry for the Night to return, silvering
my pain into ink so I can write myself a new existence.
July 6, 2012
© Jewel MoonSilver Knight - All Rights Reserved.
without shame, a tourniquet I tried to fashion
from my nocturnal scrawl of letters shaping
words, I tried to write myself a new existence
as the Night spilled her ink across my pages-
but the souvenir Stars blurred my vision until
all I could do was cry-for what was never fully
healed and my wounds again unsealed, they throbbed
beneath their frail black lace stitchery, my heart
was sliced and skewered into several bloody pieces,
but from its slaughter the Light shone even more
purely in the Dark, though others may wonder how
can this be-how can such fractured pieces shine?
I know that I have always been what I write.
I feel myself being pulled under the indigo plumes
of Night-a submersible sigh drifting without a shore
-a page lost before it could be bound within a book
as ornately green as a cicada's wing...so have I been,
searching for a way to exit this existence before
my pen runs dry and my heart finally dies from knowing
too much daylit grief and not enough twilight relief,
oh why can't I be happy? Is it because Happiness is
a butterfly spilling color in the humid breeze with
the fragile flutter of her wings? Or is Happiness
a fairy as short-lived as an idea out of sync to this
life? These sundried thoughts awaken the Moon in me
to shine as I cry for the Night to return, silvering
my pain into ink so I can write myself a new existence.
July 6, 2012
© Jewel MoonSilver Knight - All Rights Reserved.
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