The great threat is always inside.
Quiet things lie within
Neat little knots holding down
Raw, unkempt edges simmer
Little hands pet anger like a dog
It’s growl held but not missing
Deep recesses craved beneath
Smooth surfaces are deceiving
We are always surprised by silence
Calculating torrents wait patiently
Undercutting control, overwhelming
It’s passing unseen, its trail wide
Beware what lies in Silence
He went to sleep with image of the deer and a dream sack from the Dinè spirit shop. He was told be the deer,think the deer, and find the deer. photo by Rebecca Johnston – here’s a bigger version
When he awake he was the deer and it was the first day of hunting season.
Written as part of a challenge called The line tales, details are available at https://only100words.xyz/2016/09/29/three-line-tales-week-thirty-five/
The crumbled edges have long lost their golden guiding. Distressed is the single prominent feature left. Years and seasons have ever taken a horrible toll. Empty spaces fill what once were windows brightly lite from within. Once a grand, majestic lady has passed to an overlooked blighted mess.
In the breeze, tatters of long forgot cloth flap. Either indicating life was once there, or it could hide what was there once from the present. Morning dawns last in a darkened alley. It draws her to her feet. The sunlight shines dimly on her facade of a life left.
<au href=” https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/facade/”>Facade</a>
My lovely shadow. I stare across the field. The clothes line is where she is sexist. A stolen look at her. A silhouette of the body my dreams occupy. Lost in a hidden moment, miles from anywhere. I can taste her breath. Feel the stands of hair.
I struggle to sit upright. My daydream lost. Pieces of sand passed through an hour glass. She is spectre. Haunting me still.
I’m sinking in your quagmire
Pretending it means something
Pretense that it mattered
I falter in the act of hope
An act of solo solidarity
Solid ground gives after belief dies
Pillars of marble splinter to fill
When the glass has been taken
The Winoow is called a hole in the wall
My foundation was built on pixie dust
Dreams live only where hope and belief dance
The record player is quiet
The band has the day off
I strive to build a bridge
You’ve burnt away the forest
An empty field is what we share
The grass has been pastured
Stubble and rain of tears is left
The fragility of life is a measure
What we need and want
And what we do to keep it
The pixie dust has consumed me
Your quagmire turned quicksand
Photo credit: Bluffton University
There’s things to work on
Working out ideas and flaws
Or is it character and traits?
Hard to tell from the inside
I build and rebuild, then paint
Is this the way it should appear?
Have I exaggerated too much?
I peer out to see the rest of you
Not how I want to be…
I need different but similar
My chisel makes lasting sweeps
My hammer rudely guides it
I want subtle but destiny isn’t
From my changing perspective
I recreate the image to fit
But always remains unfinished
The mirror focuses on you.
Little eyes dart, searching
Mine find yours
What secrets held hostage?
What thoughts lie within?
I see an expression
Close to what I hope to see
But do you notice mine
Are my thoughts showing?
Do you see me in my mirror?
I build a story about you
The shape of your face
I hold details like gold coin
The light changes and we part
Do I see you again next light?
Wordle #122 “September 26th, 2016”
1. Shibboleth (Noun. A
peculiarity of pronunciation, behavior, mode of dress, etc., that distinguishes a particular class or set of persons. A slogan; catchword. A common saying or belief with little current meaning or truth.)
9. Gloam (Noun. Twilight)
10. Kyrkogrim (refer to the Wikipedia page
Use at least 10 of the words to create a story or poem
The words can appear in an alternate form
Use the words in any order that you like.
Tag: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie and Wordle
The closing gloom releases the spirit. The black form rescinds to its corner stone. The void created by its entry removes the density of the air. Petals free fall, unhinged from the days flowers.
A man in tweed waits for the Kyrkogrim. His manner of staggering about, speaks to him as a shibboleth. He is not of this world either.
Bits and pieces
Crumbs, pretty colors, symbols
Thrust together with into images
Mystifying blurs twist and turn
Mirrors feed back broken forms
Reality holds shape and flexes
My mind chooses which is true
Then it turns again and again
This reality is better now
Realm, a kingdom of sorts
Until I wish it gone away
A turn and a new start.
Colors flash by my eyes
I could stay in this one awhile