Cross my heart And hope to rise; My demon's reaching For the skies To find the fate I once adored, Which angels ripped From my soul's core: A feather feast Of Nature born — Mut'ed magic, Heaven-scorned. Photo by luizclas on Pexels.com
Mut’ed Magic
Uprooted
Ivy vines climb up my willow legs, wrapping, creeping, crawling, inching closer. I feel the twisting green leafy flesh embrace me as you, here at my feet. My branches bow to the sight of you. I surrender to the pleasure tickling my thighs as you grow to the sun mirrored on my face, brushing across…
The Offering
The garden fairy washes hands, as small as lemon seeds, in a buttercup over swelling with a dewdrop under the shade of a robin's wing-song. Food has been provided by the mortal who lives in that poisonous cave of false walls created from fluid of ancient carcasses, but she does not trust the lure. She watches…
Darkened Streets
All the geese have gone to sleep, but I still walk the darkened streets on graves of saints who chose to leap and pave atop this foul concrete, masking the drags of others' feet so I may see my refined dreams and clarify my conscious schemes, forgetting my past silent screams. Photo by Alex Fu on Pexels.com
Prey of Shore and Sky
My mother was a bird long of neck, wading in slate waters and afraid to fly a gray choking sky peppered with cracking snaps shot off by a Browning Gold 10. Those wingless aliens had no home in the wood, appeared in deafening shells no hermit crab could conceive, and wielded such branches that splintered,…
Mockers
no one wants to be the fat girl friend, ‘cause something must be wrong with her, some sickness slowing down her pace, she’ll get us killed with her wheezing, the predator comes when it hears the call of our teasing, then we bolt from the sacrificial lamb, let her die where we lead her, survival…
Snow’s Fall
Snow skin, pink cheeks, smooth brow, brown peeps, blue lips, chiseled teeth, black tongue, banshee shrieks, rough palms, tiptoe creep, needle claws, lack of sleep. Her life is lovely, dark, and deep: a storybook lie so no one sees spread spider-veins, stained memories — the blood-red soul she should not keep. AUGUST 2022 UPDATE: Obviously,…
With Ink-Stained Hands
My ten year high school reunion would have been this year. But as you know, the sickness began. The riots started. And we hid ourselves away. I decided since I had to hide my body (something I don't mind too much, being an introvert), it was time to reveal my mind. I've been writing poetry…
Saralyn Caine Poetry 