Dimples
I am the wind that sighs at night
through your bedroom window
making your lovely hairs take flight.
They rest against your cheek like affectionate little arms,
and cling to your freckled flesh,
its rosy flush their one dimpled source of life.
Those could be my arms, holding fast to that imperfect reservoir
into which I slip further each moment,
sliding towards that gentle dip at the centre of your smooth skin.
there is one on each side,
To kidnap both mind and matter.
The day I tumble into that tiny pool of love
I will drown.
and then I will float
in your falling tears that follow me down
whether those of sadness or joy, I will never know
but either will hold me captive.
Colourful Language
your words are like flowers that come alive in a cold spring
shooting from the ground with a gentleness
that encumbers a hidden force
they unearth their surroundings
and mask others with their wondrous scent
but sometimes
their beauty is only soil deep
the meaning tucked away between those pretty petals,
which sometimes are secretly colourful little blades.
they cause my heart to tremble and wither
as though it were a snowdrop made of glass,
and it will shatter.
A guide to feel-good doom
Drowning in the waves of your hair
Would be a holy passing.
To flail and clutch at your neck
As breath deserts and eyes bulge
Would be a reluctant grasp at life.
Smothering in the scent of your skin,
Choking on that poisonous perfume,
Would be the sweetest doom
And the most caressing of killers.
Falling into the deep valley crested by your thighs
Would be a lovely tumble to a dark future,
Where the pearly gates or the flames of Hell
Are the freckles on your nose.
Sleeping forever by your side
Would be a peaceful slumber.
So inflict yourself upon me
Until the Reaper hugs us both.
J
Two spots of grass
and a carpet of autumn leaves on top.
A little haven of sunshine
where beautiful thoughts grow like crops.
Smile basking in rays
that brighten my mind.
In a forest of towering trees,
the only one I could climb.
Hands reflect heart
a touch from both makes me whole,
when your laugh lights up a room
it never forgets my soul.
Crude strokes of my fingers on your face,
where worlds tease their tips.
They drag me further in each time,
and soon, happily, I will slip.
Meeting Maker
I had the chance to meet Maker;
I fought it, I tried to.
Their eyes grove wounds in my back,
Shaped rivers in my cheeks,
Reaching towards me with the menace of an obligatory offer.
Their ritual crowded them into masses,
Into shadowy shapes
That I was scared of.
The beat of their drum to the beat of my shrinking heart,
Their grotesque form devouring its feeble fight.
It stopped–
It silenced–
Maker, satisfied and quenched,
Went on Maker’s way.
Whole
If you try to fix it–
Well, I’d rather you didn’t.
It’s nice and impenetrable now, you see,
There is no key.
Not even a door to house one.
In fact, nothing will be housed by it ever again
Shards and fragments cannot be used to build a house or a home,
Its fractured shell should simply be left alone.
Oh, its fearsome, I swear!
Blood red like the mouth of a tiger
And twice as vicious when provoked
It is no longer vulnerable,
But if you want to try and approach it,
Best beware of its tendency to snap.
My heart is a lone soul
And we don’t need you to make us whole. |
Lisa Ardill is a twenty-something-year-old woman with a passion for feminism, human rights, neuroscience, literature and film (roughly in that order!). She writes poems and prose to entertain herself, cheer herself up on gloomy days, and keep the spark for creative writing in my brain alight.
Chris Murray 