POET'S SKIN

I dance around vivid imagery and try to create sparks

Month: June, 2015

Fiction: Cancer took you away

The air around was stale. The dandelions were not fluttering in the air like flying petals anymore, and my fur coat was no longer needed in a temperature like this. I tossed my fur coat on the ground and walked up front.

I am back here, once again. 

I took out the dusty photo I kept in the pocket of my jeans, and I held it up against the light, squinting in reflex as sun rays threaten to penetrate my eyes. In the photo, we were us. Everything was as it was. I still remember the ever so vivid traces of memory from that day. The sun was a soft, warm ball that kept the temperature cosy and we were on this very field, carrying trays and trays of pre-packed picnic boxes. I took out the picnic mat and we both lay there, my head in your lap, as we counted the flying petals of the dandelions in our hands. We chased the evening sun which I remembered was dyed in hues of red and orange, Along the chasing, we both fell and tumbled to the ground, laughing, at our attempt to even run among the tall grasses. I hate sweating, but I don’t think I even sweated a single bit that day. Time with you was just that magical.

I blew the dust off the photo and put it back in my jeans where it should be. I leaned back and allowed my body to hit the ground, knowing that the kindness of the grass mass would cushion my landing. And it did. Whoosh. I lay there for hours, keeping still and being muted, without a single movement or word. I lay there for hours and hours, until the sky was stygian dark and the crickets a chirping mess.

It’s been 5 years now, and I have not missed a single Saturday coming back here, coming to a place where I can still feel traces of you.

Some people call me crazy, some people tell me to move on, but I’d just say that all I am trying to do is keep you alive, even when life couldn’t.

Fiction: Veracious dreamer

Lady from forest 3 by Darey-Dawn

My dreams tell stories.

They don’t tell the mundane bedtime stories that lull us to slumber at night, but the eccentric bizarre ones that touch one’s mind like an enigma, engulfed and sheltered in opaque drapes. In my dreams there are always objects filled with deeper meanings, and they always almost never mean what they are in literal terms. Initially, I thought nothing about them. “Dreams are just dreams,” my grandpa used to say. But not when something happened. Something like that happening in my dreams and finally in real life? It could never be a coincidence.

There was one night where I dreamt of being in a forest. This forest was a tangly mess of leaves and vines and I was stuck admist the disarray, screaming to get out. My lungs felt heavy and weary, as though they were filled with water. Instantly, I felt myself pulled down under the ground and strangely, I was then in water. I was in an ocean of unfathomable depth and I could still breathe, as though I was suddenly bestowed with gills. I mean, anything can happen in dreams after all, right? I remember swimming and swimming and the further I swam, the more my lungs hurt, and my muscles, taut. And the deeper I reached, the more corals and seaweeds there was. And so I just kept on going, until I found myself tangled in yet another mess of sea wonder. The weeds were wound around the corals like ribbons tied like knots, and I screamed yet again. As if it was the work of a higher power, my scream got me pulled down to yet another place. Only that it wasn’t exactly a physical terrestrial place we call Earth. I was pulled into space. There, I found myself breathing without the need for any equipment again. I gesticulated in the air, and I remember smiling in fascination at the feeling of liberty, The inextricable feeling of  bareness. Wholeness. And then I woke up. I woke up breathing hard, and in that moment I wondered if my dream could perhaps have been real.

Then one day, it happened. This “forest”. This “sea wonder”. And finally, “space”.

My dreams tell truth.

Large, yet small.

I clear my throat, just in case the world wants to hear my opinions.
I run my tongue over the edges of my white rocks –
smooth and white.
Trust me,
they matter.

But suddenly I am aware that we are flecks of the reflected sun;
and I am just but a minuscule speck of dust –
physically meagre and trifling.
Trust me,
I don’t matter.

I rub my eyes and I look straight – back at myself in the reflection.
My hands move and the image in front of me moves.
Every muscle I clench – it is major.
Trust me,
I matter.

But then I see a trussed up carcass buried below dead grass and dried flowers;
blowflies hanging from the holes where meat once filled.
Everything I am will be gone, in time. It is already gone.
Trust me,
I, you, me, they – we all – don’t matter.

Outshell

You know, maybe one day we all just grow up.

We grow out of our meek little shells coated with the thinnest of materials,
and emerge bare and unclad, bodies dripping with dense fluid.
Would we take the shell that bore us shelter for the past years?
The answer is no, simply because it holds no shed for us anymore.
We grow up, and we grow up, and we grow up,
and along the lines, we discover the person we want to be.
And everything falls into place.
The jagged edges consuming the corners of empty spots
are now covered by the puzzles that have finally found their seating
and we, become.
Whatever we decided to be, we
become.

And I’ll become.