Amy Words

I am always a little wary of posting what I write in public places. Especially poetry. I am scared as hell that someone will read what I've written and scoff, "You call this rhythmless, rhymeless mess of letters poetry? I call it garbage!" Or worse yet, that someone will hear the sentiment behind the words and scoff at that. I am terrified of being bundled by others into the over-populated slushpile of what I have heard referred to as "bad poetry," and most of all, I am afraid that I belong in that slushpile. Because maybe I do.

So. . . here. I give up my heart and my head and my fear, encapsulated into words. You may read them, if you like.

 Bright, gaudy world
 shining, overworked
 artificiality is prized
 over the truth.

 The witch's curse
 comes garbed in black
 eyes dull, unwilling to see
 they pull away.

 Royal child sinks
 dream-like, into death.
 relief. her lips are curved
 into a smile.

The girl and the dragon lie curled together in a close, intimate crescent, oblivious for just a moment to the pain of the outside world. Gently, almost timidly, a rust-tipped talon stirrs the silky dark strands of hair that spill across Niese's shoulders and puddle on the ground.

She lets a long, deep sigh escape from between her lips. There are words that need to be spoken, both by the Dragon-Mother and herself, but she knows of no way to say them. The distance between beloved and child is long and wide and deep; even the warm, rumbling, reptilian purr that thrums through that body so near her own cannot bridge such a gap.

"You are thinking," the Dragon-Mother murmurs. Soot-warm breath curls around Niese's ears; she stiffens without thinking.

"Yes."

"It is They who have taught you to do this." The low, powerful voice is thick with bitterness.

"To think?" Niese cannot help but laugh. "They hardly know how."

Again, the silence falls, but it cannot help to soften the raw, unspoken words that hang between them. You taught me how to think, my mother, but a thing once taught cannot be unlearned. Would you have my youngling self back, dependant and afraid? Indeed, it is easier to have a daughter you can control. Easier to have a daughter you do not fear.

Flame red eyes dart restlessly in quest of stability. She pulls away from me; always the distance is greater. Every day I can see how much she is like Them, and there is fear, yes. . . I am afraid. For always, there is love. With this she can hurt me, this child who once slept in the cradle of my talons, she could could rip me to shreds if she wished, and every day I see Them in her eyes.

Silence, it is said, holds close the screams of words unspoken. Niese closes her eyes, cold despite the warmth of the wings and belly that cradle her body. They cannot cross this gap. Neither of us is willing to be the bridge. She hides her face in her hair and tries to sleep, tries to ignore the creeping, leaden stillness in the air.

After a moment, the thrumming purr in the Mother-Dragon's belly, vibrating until now like an ancient, steady heartbeat, fades away.

 Well.
 Today I wrote a poem
 scrawling words across a page
 and when I stopped
 Those words had carved your face.
 Imagine that.

 moonlight kiss
 trapped in glass
 quick! wake her up
 rescue the maiden.
 red lips shine
 save me! save me!
 she waits and knows
 the hero will come soon.
 *
 ragged cloak
 torn boots
 he turns and kicks the coffin
 "let me go!"
 beauty sleeps
 a raven polished white
 he cries and knows
 she must rescue herself.

 Feet slip
 wind blows
 hands clench 
 mind knows
 hold your breath as down you sink
 into the wetdark, over the brink.
 Past follows
 present clings
 future beckons
 time sings