I have heard her sing, lungs, founting with light, to braid dark hours into grace. Advertisements
The scarring gleam, to produce penitent beads of sorrow, through a lashed eye, darkly. (Photo by Man Ray)
Sometimes, the children who have gone underground, the chance orphans who choose spelunk or burrow or blackest pitch out of necessity and survival instinct, leave behind tangible remnants of their former lives, sacrificed to sights and gods unseen by morally … Continue reading
Rebirthing, within fathomless hues, beyond the opaque rim, and vanishing, someone waits to claim your life anew.
It is the other stepsister, the disinherited one, known only as The Vamp, who played dark foil to Cinderella’s happiness, when she seduced and blackmailed the Prince, ignited a calculated run of scandals, and forced Cinderella to yield the glass … Continue reading
How a writer, cave-timing dark and solitude, annoints an ember by crafting the small hours into a flagrant torch.
Remember when we were kids and we’d sometimes have sleepovers and listen to the dark together? That’s what you called it, Anya, listening to the dark. Sometimes we’d pretend to be camping. We’d make a tent on my bedroom … Continue reading
The porchlight in one’s personal heaven is always on, solace through staid aureole for orphans wandering heartsick in the dark.
