Play Me In CrescendoIt scares me that this could bePlay Me In Crescendo by DSteffi
my last poem—
something more than a goodbye
but less than my soul;
a mere imprint
on half a white page
just begging to be read,
I haven’t even begun to grasp
the hintings of love,
its quirks & random tendencies
to be set aflame
when you look into the eyes
of someone staring back
It isn’t fair for fear
to house in the hollows
of your stomach,
because there’s so much more
that’s worth the good
you’re too shy to touch—
knowing you’ve been burned before.
So darling, don’t leave me roses
on my grave;
read to me,
in your happiest of voices,
poems and quotations
you’d give your heart for
Arcadiai. You know how sometimes you want to be a playlist for someone? To be a fifty-three minute and forty-five second track on ambiguity, longing and nostalgia. A homemade mixtape they’d take with their late afternoon drives, when the borders between the dusky setting sun smudge into the perfect shadowed sky. You’re not there with them; your scents not intermingling with each other. But somehow, they’re closer to you than the salty and sugary wind you breathe, while thinking at the same time whether or not they’re in their own world; their own genre.Arcadia by DSteffi
ii. And maybe it’s because we’re all gripped with a little bit of hypergraphia that goes vomiting on every awkward angle we have. An intensified gripping of intra-fireworks display only happening in our own ossified skulls. It’s thinner than a paper-thin margin how exhales of exhaustion could immediately turn into staccatos of hysterics.
iii. Yet that’s the imperial of music: multi-handed
Aphotic“I loved you once.”Aphotic by DSteffi
To be honest, I’ve re-figured myself to know
exactly how you feel. It’s not easy after all,
to have your subconscious not as homey
as you thought it’d be- to be running in circles
when all you can do is crawl with both hands
No. Because we weren’t made to love rocks.
We weren’t made to be aeviternal when the tides
become tsunamis, when the paper cuts become
serrations. Even before the falls of our antebellum,
we’ve stopped denying ourselves to be aperitifs
to everyone else. Not because it was easier at the time
but because we had no other choice.
We gave everything to be amethyst,
to be something beyond the colour of our eyes
because maybe then, if the storms were good,
we could escape from being ourselves.
But we were on the opposite of that, too.
All we were really missing were the lights in our bones.
“Would you love me again?
Shadows of the PastFull of verve, he came down the stairs as he perceived a motion out of the corner of his eye. Something rushed up to him and then came the pain and the darkness. He could not remember how he hit the hard and cold concrete floor.Shadows of the Past by Malintra-Shadowmoon
Dark shadows. Cold. Nausea. Wave for wave he made it out of unconsciousness. Slid back and came back to consciousness in slow waves. But he was too confused to understand what had happened. Anxiety and panic spread in himself. He wanted to move but nothing happened. No flinching, nothing. Only cold and a terrible uncertainty.
Finally, he tried to open his eyes. Forced them with all his strength to face the truth. It took him ages and when he after all managed it, simply nothing changed. Still this darkness. A little more grey in this black but no light, no motion, nothing. What the hell happened? He was only just at home yet and then …, yes, there was a memory. The stairs, the pain. Someone had knocked him down. But „who“ and above all „
Bullet Train Poetry and Prose. Poetry and prose. I roll them both on my tongue the way I would a circle candy; red and glistening like some star, saved in a glass case for later, save the fact that I’ve always wanted to eat one. Save also the careless folly of repeating them so I wouldn’t think of anything else. Poetry and prose. Poetry and prose. Mathematics. Stagnant and certain. It must be like finding and fitting the right fingers in between the spaces of your own. Comforting. Balancing. Finally pinning a right angle to your obtuse one. But never an answer on your own.Bullet Train by DSteffi
Like a box. Like the one I have. I don’t border the lines though, so I’m still stuck in it. But my box has friends- all not found in my backpack. Rolls of me when I was too sad to try to cry, old obligatory letters and drawings with the sun on the top left corner side. Curses
For the BoatmanCharon, I still keep the constellations in jars. You will not take me across the Acheron, so I wait on the river bank, trying to steal pennies from other passengers. I hear them clinking in your hull, ferryman, forgotten and oxidized. You call me by my name, even now.For the Boatman by SomethingOnceSacred
"Persephone is dead, and her king never heard you crying out as I have."
I sang a hymn for you, Charon, but you only smiled and turned away.
Charon, have you met the slighted king? When he called, I answered, but his memory was just as rotten as mine. I had loved him with my own shadow, once. Ferryman, have you ever been in love?
"Stay on the shore. There are those who would see you swallowed whole. Little one, stay on the shore."
No one told them they couldn't swim to Tartarus. Sometimes, I believe I knew them better before you refused my paper stars.
Charon, am I drowning again? Or has there always been saltwater here? They never said anything.
"The inbetween is purging itself of you."
No one's joi
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