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18 | she/they | hypothetical astronaut | ekphrastic poet | haunted house

Message from Writer

Profile picture is a painting from the Rothko Chapel in Houston
I look at the moon and go: "wow, that's my wife!"
Currently Reading:
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez / Who Do You Serve, Who Do You Protect? edited by Maya Schenwar


November 18, 2016

Why is darkness surprising,
the ice and the brambles and the quiet,
wild way the wind whistles after dark.

The sky is not a monster under the bed,
only the gentle silk of morning,
and the charcoal of night.

Our fears are our own creation,
the river will roar and crash and kill,
but that is how it is,
and always has been,
blood is not spilt it is spent and
our hands can neither tame nor object
to nature. 

Only look, only touch, only know.

For, in recent memory,
the sun has risen every day 
and set every night.
The mountains will remain,
and the wildflowers will find a way,
despite staggering odds,
to grow.


See History

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  • paperbird

    Woah that's amazing! You're a great writer!

    about 2 years ago
  • Norah

    Thank you for the wonderful comments! This is a piece I'm truly proud of and I'm so glad all of you appreciate it!

    over 2 years ago
  • ly_ss

    A++ girl!!! Absolutely loved it!

    over 2 years ago
  • † Skyward Bound †

    I find this very beautifully written, and the lines flow like water. Great job! God bless and keep writing!

    over 2 years ago
  • Norah

    Thank you!

    over 3 years ago
  • BrookeG23

    Wow! That's pretty amazing :)

    over 3 years ago