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FairiesPlush, fresh morning snowflakes
lay like silently resting fairies
on the branches of
MercyI stood out in the cold and
watched the Milky Way cry
like a new mother cries
when her first child is slow to take a breath
and begin life.
And I wondered:
Are these our last breaths
or our first?
I thought about how beautiful
the Earth was around me,
even in the darkness,
and if she was merciful.
Would she see the good in my heart
and spare me, or would she
clamp down on me like a mosquito
who had been caught
sucking the blood from her thigh...
As I returned to the warmth of my home,
I considered the cool air caught in my chest.
I hoped if she wasn't merciful,
I had earned mercy enough to
exhale one last time and
remember the sensation of
my love's lips on my cheek.
Moments Dressed in SnowflakesMy pup by my side,
the neighbours cat watching quietly,
He gently whines to remind me
the snow is cold on his paws,
and all the while the smell
of freshly baked shortbread
tickles my nose.
Snowflakes flutter like
migrating butterflies and
dust my eyelashes with
Each strand of hair
that usually flows freely about my face
wriggles in the wind
like a poor fly
ensnared in a spider's web.
My breath cascades over my lips
in a fanciful dance,
etching my dreams into
the crisp morning air
as my lungs revel in the vacation
from humid breaths.
The tenderly lit Christmas Fir
paints pictures in the frosty window,
while boots not-so-heavy
compress nature's tears of joy
beneath my feet (where
only two months before
While my stubby fingers
hide within cheaply made red gloves,
I can't help but admire
the soft Christmas music drifting
through the walls of my house,
a vanilla smile sheltered beneathe
a scarf made of my own hands.
Ode to a Grain ElevatorSilence begets beauty and the view
of a thousand acre sea of gold.
Even when the days are grey,
a beacon within expanse shall you be
and a refuge for the owls.
Tell me, does your dust give comfort
to your mice as it does my mind?
You do not lean in the great prairie winds,
weathered by the pummeling rain and hail,
dressed by the sweet white winter.
The name aside your walls to you a memory,
to me a location of no significance, really,
but you wouldn't understand
as I don't understand your will to stand tall.
Though abandoned in farmer's field,
with every bird you shelter, every creak and moan,
you smile on the knowledge
you see the most beautiful sunsets in this world
HomesickI am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More