Miss' Poetry and Prose
 

So, here's a little bit of my writing. I'll post short stories, snippets from role-plays that I particularly like, and some of my favorite poetry. Comments and constructive criticism are welcomed whole-heartedly, but feel free to just read and enjoy yourself. Thank you!

Poetry—Night’s Flight

I drift on the breeze,
On a midsummer’s night.
I gaze at the stars,
How beautiful and bright!

Cool wind fills my wings,
I rise to the moon,
Look down on the world,
Sound asleep soon.

I alight on a rooftop,
Peek in through the panes,
Parents kiss kids goodnight,
Until the morning reigns.

Grinning, I depart,
Gliding down through the streets.
Night owls gather ‘long the road,
Exchanging meets and greets.

Streetlights glow as I pass,
Lights in homes retreat.
Even in this restless city,
Everyone sleeps.

Gliding on my way,
It’s time I get to bed,
I wander back into my nest,
And gladly rest my head.

By the day we just pretend,
But the night unmasks us all.
We are all alike in the dark,
The big and the small.

Poetry—Nature’s Sonnet

A symphony of songbirds,
A ballad from the brook.
This silent song of peace I hear,
Is often overlooked.

Calm and quiet on the outside,
Alive and active within.
Songs of hope, peace, and love,
I pray to hear again.

The sun slumps behind the mountains,
The sonata slowly dies down.
I call to the forest for an encore,
Yet I hear not another sound.

The music of Mother Nature,
So harmonic, tranquil, and free.
I long to listen once again,
Sing a song for me.

Short Prose—Drift

Nothing compares to the joy of snow. It’s a pure euphoric feeling when one wakes to a fresh, glistening, untouched blanket of white just outside the frosty panes of the window. Upon waking, a mad rush to layer on clothing ensues, pulling one pair of socks over another, and digging for the forgotten gloves at the bottom of the drawer (not even looked at since last winter). Tugging a fleece hat over the ears and heading for the door- only pausing to observe the mirror so as measure how idiotic the getup looks- but not caring, because it’s warm, and the snow won’t care what clothes were picked that day.

Icy air stings rosy cheeks in a frigid blast when the front door swings wide, and bundled feet step out into the inviting white powder with a sccreeeccrruunnchhh. It’s so soft and loose, ankle-deep, and absolutely beautiful in the cold sunlight. Squeak-crunching with every careful step, walking out into the yard with a giddy, nonsensical smile, one can only gaze in wonder as the rays transform frozen water into glittering crystals, each flake with an individual and happy gleam.

But the wonder soon passes, and instantly the child within sits before the steering wheel. Running, chasing nothing but the wind, slipping into the frozen cushion and laughing without a care. Up again, and clumping the stuff between wet gloves to toss blindly into the distance without any real aim. The search for a makeshift sled begins, and after several failed attempts with a cardboard box, trashcan lid, and tarp, a garbage bag suddenly becomes something much more than just a garbage bag.

Short Prose—Drift Continued

A tiny slope on the side of the yard that is often overlooked is the source of bubbly laughter as a child goes spinning, sliding, slipping down the slope. A bag-shaped indent marks the trail, and now the child is back at the top again, this time finding the joyride much faster and better than the last, judging by the increase in giggling.

In the distance, the cows in the pasture moo in protest of the cold and noise, steam curling in silver ribbons from their nostrils and rubber lips. A horse snorts, and dogs bark from next door good-naturedly, mingling with the noise of other children playing. Each breath in stings in a good way, and attempts to make “smoke rings” with the warm vapor of an exhale proves to be futile. Everything seems closer and quieter in the snow, as if the world has put on a set of fluffy white earmuffs, somehow warmer even in the subzero temperatures. The air smells clean, and white has never been a more beautiful color. Pinpricks of cold on the tongue is better than candy today, though there is no taste. Life feels as light as the gently falling dust, and all the troubles in the world can simply drift on a breeze out the window.

It’s a pure euphoric feeling when one wakes to a fresh, glistening, untouched blanket of white just outside the frosty panes of the window.

Nothing compares to the joy of snow.

Poetry—Forsaken Wings

Everything is over,
You've worn me to the bone.
Robbed of life, love, and hate,
Forced to stand alone.

Now, what is there left for me?
But to wait for death to loom?
You've stolen all my sunshine, love,
Now darkness is my tomb.

They say love is blind,
Hate is grand,
Faith is gone,
Joy is bland.

There once was a time,
When on love's wings I'd soar.
Yet in this cruel world,
Love can exist no more.

So forever I'll fly,
On my forsaken wings.
Eternally alone,
Until death sweet Heaven brings.

Poetry—My Armageddon

Your eyes grow progressively darker,
The rain inside you continues to fall.
I stand here in your presence,
Unstable, small.

Your thunder soon surfaces,
You stand, seething in rage.
Yet, inside,
You’re but a dove trapped in this cage.

You stand like a leaf before me,
Trembling with each bend in the storm.
I know this is only the beginning.
Soon, the real you will be reborn.

And just as I thought,
When you’re released from your tomb of leaden,
You’ll bring with you,
My Armageddon.

Poetry—Sleeping In

Still lying in bed
Late in the afternoon,
Entreating for an
Extra five minutes;
Pretending the alarm clock didn’t go off.
Immersed in the covers,
Nothing is
Getting me up today.

I’m
Notorious for sleeping in.

Poetry—The Garden and the Sea

Fear
Of truth;
Illusions
In the night hour.
I hear you whisper
Silent nothings of some
Comfort long lost to us now.
Lost in the sea of decaying
Lies, where you have buried your final
Broken heart in the garden of dark blooms.