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Tell Me A Story

A Poet's Journey

New beginnings should always involve an element of the unattainable as inspiration.

Poetry: Welcome
Poetry: Blog2
  • Writer's pictureAngela Stubbs

Treillis de Coeur

I subtracted truth to found eyes, blurred, or blurry, a feigned protest. A sum. Skin covered in fever, she says she’ll wear that or ink, if you’re really blue. That’s what mourners do. When it breaks, you’ll see how perfect it looks in the light. Abstraction unfolds. The iris transparent. Dreams well up and eye risk. A way of thinking in our hemispheric planes. Holding trust inside, you can lumber around the eight ball. Fashion me a sight, not past or present. Proclaim nothingness from which we flee, chasing a soul’s return. Promise you won’t swallow sleep like a pill. Let's collect stray feelings, molding misfits into dominoes. We can wail with early morning light, drowning in it and the desire for tender stones to link names shared. The very thing that endures. Wild horses, a pedestal of volcanic rock, a blackout with eyes wide open.  Leaning toward the horizon. Caught in waves that carry. A long stay, home with you.

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