Bleeding Hurts

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,   
of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
~ William Cullen Bryant

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I saw a heart
carved in bone,
split in two pieces,
bleeding hurts…

Under bare limbs,
autumn weaves
a fiery blanket of death,
waiting to rot
back to life.

“Do you hear me, man?” the Wind howls. “You’ve turned the Seasons into a ruthless bitch. And through the bark, Nature is weeping her heart out.”

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– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and Hedgewitch’s Friday 55.

Not for Girls

Fridays at the cyber-home of the Hedgewitch are unruly. All right, so that is a bit of a lie. In truth, they are filled with poetry and prose (55 words) ruled by none but the wild muses and wilder wants of the writers birthing them. Since my muse and I adore freedom-kissed tales with words in them, we wrote one.
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“Not for Girls”

“The eyeballs are the windows to the brain,” she said.

Science and conviction weren’t made for girls, I thought. “You’re wrong, dearie, they are the windows to the soul.”

She shrugged. “I went through the eyes, touched the back of his skull, ran into plenty of yuck and bits of brain, sir, but no soul.”

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If I Could

The first 3 lines of the piece below are a magnetic poem bit I posted on social media. After it was described as “sweet” several times, a friend messaged me to ask, “Were you going for ‘sweet’ with that little poem?” I said to him, “I was going for poetry.”

You see, my Wicked Luvs, I love fiction because it lets me build (and experience) complex detailed worlds that can rarely be properly (or safely) touched by nonfiction. Poetry is… different. Poems do wild things with words… caress language in ways that leave flesh and spirit (and parts we didn’t even know we had) gasping. Fiction shows us the path towards a story’s secrets. Poetry shows the heart and guts of a thing, and lets us feel… what we must.

So, that is that. And this is my bit of poetry for today:
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“If I Could”

If I could,
I would write you
a heart—
I would spell it right
out of your chest,
see if it bleeds
or if it just lies
there, pretending
to love,
to hurt,
to know
(to really know)
what it is to be
human.

If I could,
I would write you
a heart

to feel.

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– Written for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55, and linked to Poets United.