Flipped Serendipity

finding peace

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  • Afterwinter (n.)

    by

    , 
    When the first bloom colors the canvass of snow,
    it calls upon the angels’ hymn; oh winged
    delight, come sing your mirthful bellow.

    When more hues paint the scene of winter,
    snow becomes rain, and white green;
    but hardly any sun, comes afterwinter.

    Not spring rain, but utterly bad weather.
    Not the warmth after cold, not the smile
    after sorrow. Unseasonably cold and somber.
    Na/GloPoWriMo Prompt

  • Story of a Gift

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    , , 
    Casual, not too much so but better dressed than he usually did. A hoodie over a collared shirt and jeans, the sweat dripping down his back goes unnoticed in the sweltering cover of his layers. His hands shake while holding a present comfortably wrapped; not snug, not fit, just loose enough to open effortlessly. He’d walk the pavement with shaky steps and staggering in indecision and anxiety of seeing his muse. She was dainty; pale skin, bags under the eyes, hardly a touch of makeup from days of lacking sleep, yet he sees it all come together more than the sum of the parts. He’d say, “for you,” but it gets stuck in his throat; he’s speechless and overwhelmed from what beats in his heart. She’ll smile and take the present; she’d hug him thanks but he could not let out a sound. There’s indecision and anxiety and lack of time. He’d say, “goodbye, hope you like the gift,” and leave while looking back after every other step. They’d never talk again.
    Na/GloPoWriMo Prompt

  • after Daffodils

    by

    , 
    If even the smallest of details
    I carve on the stone of my mind,
    so shall the iron of my blood
    act as swords of my grudge.

    If to forgive is to remember
    and to forget is a grudge over,
    then beware the mercy of the sword
    carving the recesses of the mind.
    Na/GloPoWriMo Prompt

  • Sins with an Angel

    by

    , 
    It was a mess of feathers scattered
    across the room; some still afloat, some
    lay exhausted on the ground. Pillows
    tossed about, in the wake of the deed done.

    The dimming light, a halo soon to run
    out, a banging on the door, shouting for quiet.
    A consequence of tactless merrymaking.
    A giggle avalanching to explosive, hysterical fits.

    As we laid in bed gasping out of breath,
    our skins still touching, our sweat mixing
    with the wetness of kisses and everything else
    we’ve let out. We smile in the midst of sin.

    Wen the light died down, and the feathers settled,
    I look again at the angel I’ve corrupted.

  • Poured out

    by

    My heart is filled to the brim with love
    But when I poured it out for you
    There’s was nothing to refill it with

  • Spring

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    Spring comes unexpectedly; when the first
    flower blooms and adds color to the snow,
    it’s akin to paint on canvas and how it marks
    the end of winter, the start of something new.

  • A Little Adventure

    by

    Round and round goes the dust and leaves
    as a dust devil picks them up until it falls
    apart; debris settling back to the ground
    as if their little adventure was all but false.

  • no more stories to tell

    by

    It was a steep hike that began in the morning
    when the sky was still dark and the sun just rising.
    Through the scenic views, through the entire day,
    climbing to the peak where the cliff lay.

    And when the sun had set,
    so did the foot take the step.
    As dusk broke and night fell,
    so did the ghost with no story to tell.

    Note: I have no plans of self harm nor suicide and I am not encouraging such. Please talk to friends and family if you have such ideas. You are a blessing to people even when you don’t realize it. Someone smiles thinking of you. Live on and live well.

  • Finish Line

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    It’s the last stretch and you’re gaining your
    last stride: tired legs running faster, tension
    filling your body, focus tunneling your vision.
    You break the ribbon but find everything sore.

  • Greenhouse

    by

    Greenhouse plants don’t live in the wild;
    the gardener’s care is absent as are their walls
    and the animals would feast on their blooms.
    Those taken care of are worth only in their homes.
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