She Runs Twisted

Sherry Blue Sky, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, invited us to Play It Again. I can’t say no to Sherry, so I said yes, and chose to Take It to the Streets. While I was at it, I said yes to Prompt Nights, too. I agree, Sanaa, Imperfection is Beauty(full)… with extra character. And because I’m feeling quite wild, I’m also linking it to Poets United (Poetry Pantry, 303).

“She Runs Twisted”

She runs twisted, from life to death,
the asphalt of her skin potholed with stories
of living, dying, and reckless loving.

She likes it slow in storms and at night,
fast when the sun’s a kiss away from setting,
with music roaring all her hollows full,

at any time, with wheels speeding caresses
over the surface of her heat. She loves it
when rain whittles poems into her middle,

leaving her beauty-marked with life,
marking her beautifully towards dying,
loving her marks with tales of living.

She runs twisted in life, in death, in love.

Abstract Nude, by Aja
abstract nude, by Aja
see more of her work on Sagittarius Gallery

*I deleted the first image I shared with the poem…
It did not feel quite right.
You can here it here, if you like.*

She Will Mourn in Darkness Nevermore

Fear oozes through the skin of her palms and makes her hopes clammy. She breathes… The scent of passionflower dances into her thoughts, calms her into taking a tiny first step towards the door. The studio is too dark for her to see the deadbolt or security chain, but the echoes of their laughter bites into her bones. Tears feed the gloom, and fill her vision with vintage rage.

in the dark,
anxiety and dreams
wish to fly

Anger begins to brew in the hollow of her throat, it consumes her wails, sharpens her teeth, roses her cheeks. She eats the distance between fear and the door, magics the darkness away with a flick of a switch. The foyer mirror shows her a face beautified and bolstered by the kicks of Fate’s steel thorned boots. She breathes… twists the deadbolt and unchains her safety cage.

sunlit soul
tasting tomorrow
in the bones

Hurt is too dark or too bright energy that squeezes much too tight, she breathes her thoughts into the world… she flies.

the wee notes…
– Partly inspired by the following Terry Pratchett quote, in The Wee Free Men: “…anger was better than fear. Fear was a damp cold mess, but anger had an edge. She could use it.”
– Written for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Weekend Mini-Challenge – Trying “No More”), Sanaa’s Prompt Nights (Love of beauty is taste. The creation of beauty is Art.), Expanding Bits of Fiction and Poetry into Haibun (12), and for Rereading My Pratchett.
– P.S. If you’ve yet to join May Monster Madness, 2016, you should take a look-see. 😉

Mourn, by Magaly Guerrero