Nowhere, Santa Clara | Yves Olade

Jun. 16th, 2017 07:06 pm
northlands: (red light district)
[personal profile] northlands posting in [community profile] poetry
I crawled out through the hotel window,
and lay slaughtered on the roof, thinking:

Nothing is beautiful here: even the thousand
suns struggle to provoke a light of healing
rather than scorching. I felt the gold cut
through me and cauterise the wound. half-
finished and aching, I was a dangerous thing
—an injured animal still hunting. Birds
flinched from my hands and flowers
withered into kindling. My own blood
refused to run through my fingers. I was
incessant, perpetual—running barefoot
through the woods towards the creaking
heart of my body. Only rain came out to
greet me as it struck the undergrowth
with an open palm. I ran like a bush fire
was chasing. Salt settled into the ground
behind me, and the pulse of the earth
stuttered and was slowing.

About the girl

The random musings of a librarian with a passion for reading (duh), a vast curiosity about the world, and a penchant for noticing things most people don't (like the way sunlight falls through the leaves on a tree).

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