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Literature
Roadmaps
I have traced my fingers along,
following undulating roads
on faded parchment maps but
there is no X
to mark the spot
where you should be.
I have pushed my way past
half-lit tunnels of willow
leaves, tread over mossy rocks
and overturned each one,
searching for clues, arrows.
I have mapped the stars and
their trails that I might
never be lost - but I am wandering
all the same without
you.
I have studied each roadsign;
followed each one
to its dead end
and U-turned back
to where I started.
I have traced my
footsteps,
over and over,
searching for the place
where I lost my way,
but there is no path back
to you.
Literature
before i die...
"I can't feel the pain anymore. That's good, right?" I ask.
The blood is staining the floor. Who thought a human had so much blood? Listen to me, I've just been shot and I'm worried about the cleaners not being able to get the discolouration off the ground. I'm lying here thinking about how in twenty years time I'll be having a party and in my front hall there will be a patch of faded red. If I'm still here, that is.
"Right... Jess, I need you to keep your eyes open, sweetie. Please. Just keep looking at me; that's it."
He's trying to hold back his tears.
I strain to keep my eyes open. God, they are heavy. I'm just so tired but I can't st
Literature
leavetaking
i.
the world is brighter where
dregs of strangers' revels remain --
i keep this half-light for my own.
ii.
i'll stay until the wind sighs a scotch-and-smoke
cliché, til the Muscadet's slipped from the lip
of my wayward
hello.(i know you're there before you do.)
iii.
your night is told in
patchouli-pulse wanders; mine,
in whorls of liqueur-breath. come
close and i'll find the warp
through the weft, the trails telling tales
in synaesthesia --
Platinum Blonde's been 'round and gone.
iv.
(-- closer, find syllables strewn
in an exhale's wake; stolen from my throat-
ful of careless farewells, spin and sway
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Not my best, but I like the idea. I'm afraid that this is borderline on being a "statement", but he's only moving towards truth, not there yet. And what's truth, anyways? What does truth mean to you as a reader, or as a fellow writer, how can you find it through your own words? Think about it.
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Did someone say books? xD I love the visual "written wings".