Going off the rails
to release myself
to pay my own bail
I strain, try to refrain
I think about it
what does it entail?
I can barely pray
is this all fake and vain?
no, it is not
I can feel the answer in my veins
I am a woman made of clay
drying out,
in the shy sun of May
I chase my own dismay
because is where something beams from,
like a ray
the sun, it kindles my brain
fire beams in the air
blowing from inside, making its way
from my steaming guts
from a stolen golden heart
hidden deep in the mud
nested on a rock
black, thick, strong
easy to crack, easy to mold
About the Creator
Domenica Curro
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Gossamer
"Murray! Wake up!" He loved that period between waking and dreaming. To him, it was like entering another dimension; more of a dreamscape than dreaming itself. There was an otherness to it that he wanted to grasp and yet deeply respected the fact that it could never be his totally. This is what gossamer was; flighty and light, a wisp of smokiness, an idea suggested but not fully revealed, a slit in cloth, a copse in the wood.
By Rachel Deeming6 days ago in Fiction
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