Ripples in a tidepool, ripples in the pond.
Ripples in the river, you wallow all day long.
Wallow wallow wallow child, wallow all day long.
But wallow in the peace instead,
the peace of those you love.
For tgough you see that sadness,
for now, you rest on the brink,
it will never last forever,
for one day all that you now wallow in,
will be joy and happiness,
happiness with me.
Fingerprints masked by fingertips, false and finite fingertips.
Gloved hands, trapping me, trapping you.
Fingers folded into fabric, fabric folded into felt.
Subtle, supple fabric, shadowed, black as pitch.
Twilight in the moonlight, but transparent now and then.
For when those fingers, clothed in felt, pass softly through the wall,
the skin is pale as glass of ice,
translucent to behold.
Gloved in that soft fabric, one's skin passes through all matter,
as if it were naught at all.
Touch, then, is a superpower,
a gift for all to feel.
A sense to ignite passion,
more false than all the rest.
They say that eyes decieve you,
and sound is altered too,
but when one takes the glove,
slipped over their wrist,
they yield up all sensation,
for when ones powers are superhuman,
all life is gloved, is blind -
and magical lies, they are not kind.
Forever and a day
I do not need forget-me-nots, he loves me, he loves me not.
Forget? Forget my first lov, I will not.
Winter storms may have sunk the sun, succumbing beneath the surface of a particularly suffocating snow, but that same buried beam shone upon my parents on the day that I was born.
Except it was not they who were the lucky ones.
The lucky one was me.
There was no greed, no jealousy, no lies, no deceit, that blossomed on that dismal day, for the pollen had distributed already, there upon us three, a new-made family.
Love would now bloom in our hearts, forever and a day.
And that will always be my first love, for all I am was crafted then, and all because of they.
#fiction #fantasy #prose
Blog - Hannahvernon.co.uk
Boulevard of broken hearts
I lost my heart two years ago - I gave it all away.
It was love, I knew, I swore it so: at least that's what I told myself.
Our love was strong as iron, incorruptible as the platinum of the band that he proposed with. We built from these foundations a winding concrete path, secreting all the treasures that we bore within our breasts, the gifts of time, our fledging love, as it leaped, it soared, took flight.
But then we saw the pavement, was not at all that smooth, for despite our good intentions, the cracks tore through us, tore right through.
The arguments were like a lava stream, igniting benevolent skies.
But no passionate flood is self-sustaining, however true its plea, for all at once, the summit imploded ,and all our love dripped through.
There it congealed upon the floor, now void of all devotion, for when I gave my heart away, who knew it not to be that irrevocable love, but cruel blind charity.
I walk now along that boulevard, and though the cracks do show, my feet run smooth on cobblestones, for in them beats my vibrant heart, now whole in majesty, forever now for me.
#Author #writer #blog #love #fantasy #fiction #dream
Blog - hannahvernon.co.uk
Darling, I can still hear it still
It came unstuck last night.
I told Tabitha to fix it. I told her. I really did this time.
Last time though, I forgot.
I am always forgetting things.
Like why, when I wake, my bed is always so very cold, as if a shadow walked over my soul.
And why, when I dress, each garment itches, though I had determined months previously to extract every label, every loose stitch, every imperfection.
Yet still, my skin crawls as the fine hairs of my clothing send spiders scuttling over the surface of my warped and wrinkled flesh.
But the flap was different.
I remembered the flap.
I remember how it sounded, disturbing the silence with its metallic screech, the patter of paws and the clatter of claws, stealing through my frozen heart.
Every time the strays descend, the armada lurches in my chest. The waves rise and the ocean lifts, and the spray then seals my lungs. I cry out at night, praying now for silence, when once, the sounds meant peace.
So please, darling, when you visit next, tell Tabitha to nail the flap, to bury those memories.
A broken heart cannot bear the sound, especially when it’s me.
#author #writer #dream #fiction #fantasy #memory
Blog - Hannahvernon.co.uk
When a fire starts to burn
The flames were running.
Running through the forest, the once green Amazon's pride.
Running. Rippling. Roaring. Ruling.
Condemned to run red riot through all.
Pouring from the trees, open veins, undiluted fury, flowing water, burnt at the seams, damaged beyond repair.
Trees bow to its supremacy, incapable of being salvaged, charred to the desperate bone, souls in agony, aflame.
Bank accounts were running, figures escaping, dollars dwindling; all insignificant to the life, the greatest of all gifts, running like a stagnant stream, life's blood now pooled across the dirt.
An expensive project, some complain, condemned, dissolve to dust. Others though are desperate now, to set the forest free. Our lives, they cry, are endangered now, for these, our lungs, are blackened, black as the darkest sin. But as the fiery banner unfurls, a lance across the dawn, no chivalrous act, no selfless donation, can truly save our trees.
We run to save our rainforest, but soon are out of breath, for at the expense of the lungs of the earth, we have drawn that final gasp.
Running, we are running now, running out of air.
All because the fire is running, victorious, there.
#Amazon #writer #author #fiction #blog #fantasy #dream
Blog - Hannahvernon.co.uk
A loose thread
It was the socks, in the end, that concluded their love story.
Betrayal: such a bitter word, seemingly so unjust when confronted with something so mundane as the laundry. Yet there they were, the dagger in her side, hiding in plain sight.
After years of marriage, she had thought her husband to know all her haunts and habits, specifically a hatred of bright accessories.
Perhaps the God's stirred up a neon pink concoction in their laboratory to warn her of his infidelity.
If not, the discovery of the other woman's gaudy socks so unlike her own was a remarkable coincidence.