Even here, in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.
This is the closest we will ever come to love.
their voices are as distant
see how they were wrong
about what was temporary.
Nature’s like therapy,
everybody writes about trees
Darkness hides the waiting shapes of day
that will lie there till we steel ourselves to start.
Here comes the light. We cannot turn away -
seeing is the hardest but most necessary part.
The book says: do one small thing a day
there is nothing to do but be patient
as if I were recovering, stunned, from a stroke.
and the blotched page that said: I have had enough
They left, and all this passed into silence:
unremarked and unacknowledged,
that’s why I’m telling you now.
So, you are swimming, speechless and immersed,
beginning to realise
you are floundering on some deep fault line.
Those eyes under their winged brows, grave and perfect,
watch everything with their luminous compassion.
Fiction, which is the ribbon pulled from a trembling mouth,
which tells its truth with such defiance
that everything forgotten will blaze, every joy burnished,
every recollection of unexpected flight shared
and passed from hand to cupped hand,
carried warm next to the skin,
recited for courage.
It’s high time we shake the cobwebs off Tumblr Fiction. We need to reblog more stories, post more prompts, and participate more in the glorious TWC.
Would anyone like to help co-edit this blog? The job is simple: you reblog fiction pieces you like.
Message me if interested.
Is anyone interested in helping out?