Darling Little Dear Heart

How is it,

dear heart,

that you are guarded

by a thousand foot wall?

Ever watchful guards

at every corner, 

in every watchtower,

never sleeping, 

never blinking?

How is it,

dear heart,

that you are filled

to the brim with love?

That our friends,

have so much,

yet so little,

that they can touch?

Darling, darling,

dear heart,

you are soft,

yet you are cold,

you are warm,

and yet you burn.

With licks of fire,

and blades of ice,

dear heart,

you are protected.

With licks of fire,

and blades of ice,

you protect.

Maybe one day,

one day in the future,

dear little heart,

you'll not be surrounded,

by such antithesises. 

Tucked Away in the Universe

Tucked away in the corners of the Universe are stories untold,

stories about the mild, the meek, and the bold,

stories of those with hearts of gold,

and we will never know how many stories are lost,

going to young from old.

Grandfathers gave all,

Grandmothers gave all,

Mothers gave all,

Fathers gave all,

Sons gave all,

Daughters gave all,

Sisters gave all,

Brothers gave all,

Uncles, aunts, cousins, friends,

all who gave all.

We'll never know,

these stories untold,

of beautiful love,

of sweet harmony.

While we rush about,

and run about our daily lives,

wanting for that adventure,

wanting for that love,

we lose what's right next to us.

We want the world,

we want our names painted in lights,

We want the love,

we want the affection and the might.

But that all fades.

It's all forgotten or morphed together.

What's one more discoverer, one more business man or woman,

or actress, activist, or doctor,

When we are nothing to the one's closest to us?

Brielle King

Existence itself is a terrifying reality.

Camena Pratensis

An eerie cloud of mist sat on the pond like a frozen frame of rain while a thick cloud of fog rested on the dark green, overgrown grass like a magic carpet. The trees’ leaves contrasted the dark brown and grey of their trunks and branches. The brush grew close together like huddling children lost in a wood. Everything seemed quiet. Even the humming of lone humming birds and the occasional croaks of solitary frogs seemed a part of the silence, if silence were a sound. And everything but the humming birds that flew about with ghostly grace was still. Not a leaf moved, not a blade of grass weighed down any lower. It seemed more like a painting than a reality. In the center of this haunting wood was a glade of short, light green grass touched by the sun like nothing else. And in the center of this glade as a solitary lamp post, vines growing so thickly up its post that the blackness of the iron was nearly impossible to see. It was unlit, obviously, for no one had been there for years – or so it appeared. Yet, she was here, by an odd chance. What had brought her here again? She could not remember as she approached the lamp post with enchanted caution. A wind blew her hair violently to the side, yet not a blade of grass nor did leaf as much as shudder. What was this place?

Now the silence was broken, almost unnoticeable, by a voice. The voice of the wind, singing. The words were lovely and sweet, but she would not remember them for the life of her, however much she longed to. Step by step she drew closer to the lamp when a stream of color appeared and collided beside it, forming a real person – if she were a person. The woman donned in a spring green dress with yellow, much like an impressionistic painting of bleeding color. It was she who was singing, but her mouth did not move.

“Welcome,” she looked into the eyes of the approaching child, again, her mouth did not move, but her eyes spoke to the child’s soul.