Meadow Myth

So many keys you possess,
having collected them along the way,
sand-fossils upon lonely shores,
earth-buried near silent graves,

all shapes and sizes,
from all times and places,
dating back centuries,
no ties to faces.

From a misty meadow,
skin-kissed with dew,
I emerge and
wordlessly stand
before you.

I have waited
all these lifetimes
for my key-holder
to unlock me to find

my deeper, my deepest,
potential beauty.
You raise your
worn pouch of keys;

my cloak slips
revealing non-flesh,
just my soul
preparing to
receive the gifts,

and from my light
are launched a thousand
butterfly-like fairies
that swirl around
until the white blinds
and unburies

my greatest potential,
and as the blaze subsides,
I am left with a glow
radiating from the inside,

and all of your keys
have metamorphosed
into one skeleton,
ancient and ornate, gold,

and with a knowing
in my eyes of green seas,
I reach for your heart
and let the key release

all of the beauty
and hope and dreams
you have for so long
held onto with
battered-knuckled belief,

the non-spell, broken,
for we only needed
to find each other again,
having once protected

our love by
locking it
and entrusting
you with

the task of finding
each last key
that would bring you
back to me,

and now, my love,
we are again free
to continue to love
each other eternally.

Come, fly away
with me.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Restless

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Restless

is my soul

in this skin,

morphing,

from the cocoon

but not yet used to these

wings,

 

free

from the dark, cramped

past-life chrysalis

but not free enough

from the weighted wet

preventing my wings

from fully drying,

 

so I can fly,

soar to my fullest

potential,

reach the height

I’ve been aching for

since I was born.

 

Restless is my soul

still

in its search for the home

waiting for me.

Not in a rush,

but tired

of the delays

with wings

still not ready

to take me

where I so long

to be.

 

Perhaps

my home

will come

to me…

 

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

One Drop Dreaming

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I am but one,

already tired,

one tiny bent molecule

in a sea of salt water.

 

I drift with others,

ebb and flow,

too slowly moving

to really know

 

if we’re going forward

at all;

am I my own motion

or merely following

the crowd,

 

being pulled and tugged,

or worse, rocked to sleep?

Am I even awake

or is this a dream?

 

What would happen,

I wonder,

if I resisted the urge

to merely drift like this

because it’s easier.

 

I once heard

in hushed whispers

about a legendary drop

that caused a ripple

 

that created a wave

that pummeled the shore

that got the attention

of a grain of sand

who thought to itself,

 

I want to do more

 


I got lost in thought after reading this poem (below) by Will Pennington, and it inspired me to write the above poem. 

“Tattoos” by Will Pennington