|
a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
|
|
a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
|
![]() In the frothing marsh. It has grown tiring to avert my gaze from dead men on bank notes; Restraint upon casting a weightless name into the dusk, Have three syllables swallowed by the horizon and eviscerated by a mulberry sun. At least bathed in silt and muddy waters a broken body is validated by dregs of a forgotten sea; I am made one with the bog, sealed by the sedges’ kiss And worthlessness comes from dirt-splotched flesh and not the face.
Parchedness is Overrated; here salt tears taste Sweet and anoint a brittle tongue. Come, now; the shovel is your sceptre And the gnats crown a martyr like a halo. Tomorrow they will find your shadow as ripples in the cerulean And your soul curled amongst a bed of wet marigolds. Listen closely to the dirge: remember the trail of footprints in the cedar, how palatable misery sounds in a song. You were always one for the picturesque; Now you lie braided with the soil, The purulence of sin washed from your limbs– amalgamated with the Earth from which saints rose; born again Sleep, honey; no one will lay flowers at your submarine grave Comments are closed.
|
Categories
All
* = Editors' Choice work
Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
May 2023
|