It feels like years, I don't even remember when I last wrote. So here it is, something clichè.
I am made of porcelain My skin is translucent reflecting all the emotions just like the poetry But the poetry has no letters no metaphors, no lexicons the page is empty and I am empty Fragile enough to crack down Cracked, my skin shines The light is entering in the cracks I am now weary of the hollowness Sigh!
I am made of porcelain My face is like those pale and soft petals that are just about to wither There are stretches and patches in my face That dictates my inner voice, my demons When I look at my reflection in the water, in the mirror I am unearthed of the darkness underneath That needs some light and a glue To be fixed again and hide the marks I am now weary of breaking and fixing Sigh!
The last droplets on the glass window Dried off; the steaming coffee mug on the table mixed with the distinctive smell arising from the dry particles of earth Is it really the smell of earth? Or my heart is reeking of those eloquent blood poetries. I just skipped a heartbeat or two after listening the Pitter-Patter
What kind of connection is there between the raindrops and all those poets finding joy? Thoughts. Expressions. I didn't find them relatable anymore I have turned into some Invertebrates that almost feel nothing at all; Emotionless But still why do my poetries about rain feels so heavenly?
I was dressed in misery after killing my own thoughts That once used to make me happy I was wearing a golden crown To prevent those uncanny imaginations But isn't it true that "Appearances are deceptive" The crown was rusted from inside.
All I know is life is never the way you imagine it to be I changed from a beautiful caterpillar to a caged butterfly that have choosen it's own doom. I searched happiness in the cadence of winds that freeze before it touches me There was a tinge of sadness in everything I do My heart aches for the past and I regret The metamorphosis that lead me to misery.
I was that pain and those tears Lying as an empty carcass in the necropolis To discover a window in that dingy coffin Through which my soul can escape And soar the sky to a world away from distortion To a world where my grey metaphors will turn Into smiley similes, bad imageries to good memories Where I can die in some peace.
In the depth of winter when the world is white, I find praise for January in its monotonous hue, Where summer lies in the graveyard, six feet out of sight.
When the cold wind blows in the empty streets of lost delight, How pleasant ,as the sun declines, to view in the depth of winter when the world is white.
People have seem to forgotten that January is a flower of night, Welcoming coldness with new beginnings as the world goes wheeling through, Where summer lies in the graveyard, six feet out of sight.
Waiting for the snowflakes in the blinking stardust of skylight, Seeing the good changes to bring laughter on every morning when the wind blew In the depth of winter when the world is white.
From the domes of church and the gable roofs hang the icicles quite, My heart stirred to imagine that a world approached after a year of anticipation anew Where summer lies in the graveyard, six feet out of sight.
Sending away my shadow, that's growing bigger day by day. The shadow of angst and self-doubt. Something that I didn't notice in the night, until the sun shone upon me. Waves hit me trying to make me fine, but the shadow latched onto my back, is too strong.
rains, petrichor, fog, snow, thunders, moonbows, nothing did reveal the shadow.
clouds, hanging above me, springs, dancing in front of me, autumns, giving up on my soul, winters, hacking my wounds, to treat 'em, nothing could ask me to get rid of it.
flowers drained of scent, stars lost in space, ghosts left alone in air, love thrown away into sea, nothing has to do with me.
old letters, old songs, old news, old photographs, all of these had an old me, A confident me, A lovable me, A capable me.
/The porcelain body of yours is being ruined by your shadow. Find it in the presence of sunshine. The nights may be cool, may be beautiful with stars and galaxies in exhibit. . Shadows aren't going to follow you after your death. What follows you is what you possess. Worldly, bodily shadows, standards set by humans, paths selected by manipulators do not match the heavens. . . . Shadow, my love, goodbye. /
Dive upto the surface of waters from where you are, Fly upto the sunshine from the devil's snare you're stuck. It all makes sense if it's time. Time to let go. Time to learn. Time to believe.
ACCOUTREMENT by Carolyn Glackin Let your love be my one and only adornment And that will be enough Let me be draped exclusively In the ornate finery that is you Let your kisses cover me from head to toe Like a sparkling gossamer gown Shining and resplendent And as soft as eiderdown Let the fiery heat of your passion Enrobe me with its sultry glow As that would be the finest garment This skin could ever know Decked out to the nines Oh how your ardour makes me shine Silky satin, so sublime It all withstands the test of time Never cold and never bare Despite the crispness of the air Your loving arms are always there They give me comfort, like a prayer Thus if I could choose one accoutrement I wouldn't mind the hue Style and fabric wouldn't matter So long as it was you So dress me in your love, my darling And I'll dress you in mine We'll revel in love's wardrobe Our sacred union, so divine. Copyright Carolyn Glackin 4/6/2021
*Artwork credited to one of my favorite artists: Ines Honfi.
P.S. Thank you for your continued patience while I remain on a brief break from reading and reposting.