head, heart abyss

write with lips what
can’t be said with
fingertips. the heart
grows dead if you
throw her hopes too
far into your head

toy soldiers

in the end, all heroes and villains
wield just as much power as
toy soldiers, we all melt at the touch
of an approaching death – at least
toy soldiers need not worry about
final breaths

___
written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: finite

we aren’t hollywood

we are meant to taste the
sweetness of death
because sequels are always shitty
reboots are not necessary
and prequels are ridiculous
if we were guaranteed more than this
one singular, earthly life – we’d be
spending way too many lives
just figuring out how to make
the current one right

___
written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: continue

haunted by goodness

a haunting hangs in the air, when
i stare too long, fixated on where our
existence could meet its time’s end,
when i reach that point, i begin
to curl up inside – as the cold mouth
of the unknown opens wide, the
presence of evil doesn’t bring me fear,
it’s the absence of goodness
threatening a little too near to my heart –
the idea of truth, long gone into ash
makes my soul feel like threads
pulled apart

hostage to the unknown

the cold feeling rolls in
across the floorboards
my heartbeat grows clammy
lungs fearful to breath
afraid to leave my thoughts out
in the open, i find it difficult
to believe, hard to grasp, that
sometimes this very moment
may be our last

knock, knock heart

a heart lives here.
pounding so hard on my ribcage,
trying to break down the door
before my age runs away with my mind,
not leaving anything but
regret and heartbreak behind
on the floor

__
written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: inhabit

the absence of light

sleep, the quiet side of the living
where do the sounds go
if they are caught up in dreams
and can’t escape our sleeping
in the waking moments
everything seems a bit more mute
absent of the lively blush that touches
our breathing world, where light once
curled up warmly near bookshelves
and flowers, it now hides out along
the edges of filing cabinets and
abandoned ivory towers
when i walk across floors
i think about the cores of all things
and what makes mortality and immortality
exist in all of the realities of all things
or if they even exist at all – if there really
is such a thing as rising upward or
taking the fall

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