acererak

Poetry

we filled the scrapbook with many things we all poured everything we could think of into it hoping it would swell instead that made it hunger

more memories. more time.

more and more and more and afterward

we gave up

#poetry

The road itself, was immortal.

Countless people had crossed it, Countless others would eventually come

This truth was one of only a few That the road had always known

For it held no memory, save for the places where wind and rain had etched deep patterns, over years, into it's sides

The road could feel through expressions through the plants and grass through winds playing through flowers

The road could show great joy

It had grown large fruit trees Shading travelers Feeding them Providing respite

The road was happy

#poetry

Prologue ~

I approach the door I see in my dreams. The shifting dreams I've had for the past few nights. Sometimes its the same door, sometimes it's new. So each night, I focus and describe it in this journal The door, so that one night I can choose.

The sky door

An obsidian monolith is before me Darker even against the somber room it's housed edges shimmer a glassy surface shining with a glint a hungry wolf smiling

I walk closer, not prepared to see the dark of this doorway simply

fall away ~

I could see a world, from high above

a storm cloud that looked like prairie smoke dancing with light casting dispersions on a purple field far below

a step closer

Fields of thistle colored trees wavering hard hugging coral coastline water surging, pounding cliffs with spray as golden as an egg yolk

A tempest in resin

I hadn't noticed but wind is beating my face pushing me back yet

This world beckons

another step, as I pause

A long vermilion shape, emerges far below breaking free of the thunderhead wriggling disjointed movements a hypnotic site as a dragon pulses upwards towards me

The dream ends I hear it call me

whispers

“come back”


100/100 🌟

100DaysToOffload, visit and write more #100DaysToOffload #poetry #doors

Prologue ~

I approach the door I see in my dreams. The shifting dreams I've had for the past few nights. Sometimes its the same door, sometimes it's new. So each night, I focus and describe it in this journal The door, so that one night I can choose.

The Sea Door

The air left me. Gazing at the brilliant abalone moulded door.

pink coral decorates the top of the frame.

thick seaweed wrap – fall dark gordons green tendrils swaying listless, limp reacting to something in the water

I take a step closer to investigate as little fish hastily swim schools obscured by the abalone colorful sheen

I start to move closer

A small motion, in the door stops me.

A great horizontal slit opens slowly and scans me.

The handle, which was no longer a handle starts to reach out the briny tentacle reaching towards me.

Dark violet water falling silently, reaching towards

I woke up


99/100

100DaysToOffload, visit and write more #100DaysToOffload #poetry #doors

Prologue ~

I approach the door I see in my dreams. The shifting dreams I've had for the past few nights. Sometimes its the same door, sometimes it's new. So each night, I focus and describe it in this journal The door, so that one night I can choose.

The Golden Door

Walking towards this door is like waking up on the first day of summer. I can feel the heat escaping, like sidewalks and grass clippings. Its morning as you touch the door frame. Intricate vine designs pour across the ligaments of its frame.

The gentle pulse, like the heartbeat of the wind, cool ~ dandelions puffs sailing into the afternoon heat.

Laughter. So sweet and innocent I almost instinctively grab the door handle and twist, but thats when I see the door handle.

Gnarled and dark, spent. Examining the opener I see faces. Faces that have been twisted and turned so many times the bodies are indistinguishable against each other.

A throne of faces wound into the intricate turner.

Macob and beautiful, youth forever locked in a dance


98/100

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words are weapons. through rosy lips, venomous through pens, backstabbing through dance, words are subtle transformed a line a glance motion becomes – statement that cries “get away and softly states “please, please stay


97/100

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When the door closed I felt the wind roll out The small world we'd cultivated burn Its ashes, not even fine enough to hold

That's not what I want to remember I want to remember the winter Wrapped tightly under a blanket To see your face smiling To watch sparks play across your eyes To be there again

Walking hasn't felt the same since that day Coming home to no one Sitting drinking coffee with no one

But the sun, is getting stronger the wind has started to rise

I hope I will too


96/100

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The journeys end like a sidewalks path

The flowing water falling sharply down broken glass

The way two lovers speak each word tumbles past

A reminder That even when the die is cast

The moment fades The endless thoughts get off parade

That you were there That I was too

That for a lifetime

Or maybe just a dot

Things were How they could be.

not. how they were. not


95/100

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I stole a word once

Didn't know I had until in my heart in my heart, her whisper a soft plea for release

the yearning bleats of her cries had at the time made me turn inside to see the captured component in pandora's new box

I felt it so deep me sitting with a lighting bolt or a butterfly wing like id capturing a ring of water held onto the intangible

and she stays with me even to this day

endless chatter, sadness, depression colder now and nothing she speaks matters

the word is mine my precious possession


94/100

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The connections we build. With the places we live The places we work

Mine are no different I realize As my eyebrow raise

The nervous system, of dust tattered books and creaky tarnished flooring alerted my gut that she

She was here My wait over

I could see her fingers wrap around the present id left her

Again I felt her settle to the floor

Then I slowly stood, taking care to lay my own book down I would sneak this time and so I did winding like a python through the underbrush of literary volumes flowing until I could hear her hum

Standing there, opposite a mirror her bookshelf between us I knew this might be my last chance

I let my vision fall, one shelf at a time until at last i saw the book held in front of her Her chestnut hair flowing down onto frail shoulders Her humming slight and sad The sound of a pages turning hungrily

“Excuse me” I began, but the book she read dropped A turquoise shimmer of her skin as my eyes met a cerulean blue it felt like a bubble popped

One moment there, the next, she was not


93/100

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