The White Lie

Can nothing be a thing,

That is heavy on the heart?

Can nothing be a knife,

That carves out a hollow in the chest?

Can nothing be dark,

Engulfing the air around, suffocating me?

It seems to have too much character for being nothing.

 

It approaches every night

And I am afraid of sleep.

It approaches every dawn

And I am afraid of the day,

Of going through the motions,

The endless rituals of what we call life,

As I hide behind the mask of a white lie;

“I am afraid of nothing.”

Olive Branches

Olive, Branch, Leaves, Sky

Olive branch you extend,

And I reach out with my own.

 

But time keeps passing

And turns it into a dagger

That twists in the heart

 

As I open my hands to find nothing;

Perhaps it was all imagination.

 

Gentle breeze starts blowing,

And I dare to venture a smile.

 

The moment draws to a close

And turns it into a stormy gale

That tries to uproot all the faith

 

That I had built in my heart;

Perhaps it was all imagination.

 

Paper Boats

boat paper, water, dream, water, fullscreen

I would ask for meanings, if allowed,
Of the many words which float
As messages in paper boats do;
There for all the world to see.
Because I am afraid now
Of falling off the cliff of difference
That seems to be present
Between what is said,
And what I understand.

These words seem miraculous
For they sound as if spoken
From the depths of my own agony
Instead of the writer’s;
Perhaps it is the same?
But the words are not mine
And I dare not claim anymore
To understand what was meant.

To ask for meanings,
I must sail my own boats
And that plan suffers
From the same flaw of interpretation.
But I must, of course,
For there exists now a vast ocean
And only a vessel made of feeble paper.
I can only hope
That the ocean does not engulf it.

Then again, the ocean is free after all.
Who knows if the boat was even headed my way.

Phoenix

Photo by Alex Wigan

The spark of smiles

And innocent longings

Turned to a flame;

Deep red and pure,

Of passion and warmth, hopes and dreams.

 

As she watched the flame turn to harsh fire

That threatened to cremate the very love

Which it was built from,

Panic washed over her,

And she stood paralyzed,

Forced to watch the destruction all night.

 

The fire had burned without restrictions

And brought to light all good and bad.

She now surveyed the landscape of the hearts

Where residue flames still burned around;

Bright stars in ebony dark.

The venom had flowed out due to heat;

In rivulets of poisonous green. And the love?

 

The memory of the pure, red flame

Danced in front of her eyes

And she saw the light igniting far off,

As crimson sun broke the night.

Gaining strength from warming rays

She promised aloud to burn just as bright

And sent her word to the fiery being

With messengers of both lands still stirring;

Phoenixes, after all, are reborn from the ashes.

Puppet Show

Photo by Dikaseva

Both hands are tied;

The strings, an intricate pattern

Just barely co-existing,

A mere second away from getting tangled

And messing up the show.

 

She manages to maneuver

All important pieces of her soul

Separating them, letting them meet.

Dancing a delicate dance

That only she knows the steps to.

 

But tugs at both her hands continue

The tangles keep getting tighter.

Her platform is now a stage

And her strings are controlling her;

The puppeteer now a puppet.