Spirit house

in the beginning she was a child
delicate like calligraphy
trembling before the tortured Christ
patience and fasting couldn’t tame
a child’s runaway imagination
questions asked without answers
mother’s hand comforting
to be etched in her memory perfectly
within the silence of the world

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Memories

honey drips from my pen
cup of tea cooling on the bench
candle light flickering across my writing space
‘what is the use of crying?’ I write

before I was born
the world was black and white
when my mother was still young
before my sisters and brother
before memories blackened in ash

More than just being alone

solitude is more than just being alone
with your dreams

falling forward to grow as an artist
because I can’t fly

coming down from bliss while standing
in line at the pub

clarifying my relationships with the transcendent
so I can spend one night on my own

Start dreaming

Start dreaming
in the parking lot
a little star shines
in my head,

running away from the crowd
songs of life hold me
from losing grip
dreams of a different way
of relating to each other

I’m gone

I’m gone
no sound
nothing but night
dress torn
eyes dry
picturing blood
the knife
shoulders — shaking
just silence
and I was gone

first there was an empty space

first there was an empty space,
then a character with no name
afraid of the dark;
found ― a book of words
that carried her to another world
where magic flowed from her fingertips,
shoes off, hair blowing in her face

to never wake

a voice inside
shouts I’m a girl
watching shadows
that won’t stop
risking my life;

I can feel them now
burning in my stomach,
my eyes, daring me
to never wake

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