A Run-On Sentence About Staying Where You Are by vigour-mortis, literature
Literature
A Run-On Sentence About Staying Where You Are
In a halo of messy hair
and metal shavings everywhere
my thoughts return to you
and what I would do
if we were less constricted,
if we were less restricted,
by the paths we've chosen
that leave us almost frozen
in warm beds
with full heads,
busy days
set in our ways
and complacent
with energy spent
on getting by,
forgetting why
we are even here
and it becomes clear
that things just are
the way they are
and it doesn't matter that you make me nervous,
that the only time my thoughts find purchase
is when they return to you
and what I would do
if we were less constricted,
if we were less restricted.
Estelle Asks For A Refund by vigour-mortis, literature
Literature
Estelle Asks For A Refund
Estelle had locked herself in her cabin almost three days ago, and every hour became more terrifying than the last. She could not wrap her head around how she got in this predicament and that made her feel even more powerless.
There was nothing she could do but try and wait for someone to help her, but the ship was far from land and Estelle felt rescue was unlikely. She was stuck in a spot between resourceful survivalist and complacent realist. If only her Arnold hadn't succumbed she might have had more desire to go on.
She turned her head towards the door. More aimless shuffling down the hall. More moaning. At least the screaming seemed to
I want to hold your hand in the hazy dark
and walk with you in the dewy mist,
holding our accepting free hands up
while drops form and freely fall.
The street light refracting like so many suns.
Lamp light through branches,
as if sent from the holy above.
A seemingly endless upwards barrier.
Breaths like I am underwater.
Dried leaves fall like rain.
A papery thud announces the end
of their one descent.
Spring Cemetery Stroll by vigour-mortis, literature
Literature
Spring Cemetery Stroll
I.
Contrails, mid-April.
Blossom petals fall like snow.
Cemetery, dusk.
II.
I would like to think
that you walk with me always
in soft sunset glow.
III.
Am I the last one
among the gravestones and grass?
Oh wait, the round moon.