Strings

Strings

Ivy and hornbeam the color of honey join the new ghosts of Autumn’s world.

I feel the Sun’s fire on the great pines, as long shadows poke boney fingers through the briarwood.

Crows call in the forest as above the wooded hills of burning orange oaks a sweeping Hawk hunts.

I follow a lone Stag down a trail known only to beasts through a bright sea of amber leaves.

I feel the wildness of hardwood around me, and of balsam firs in the biting cold.

I lift a fallen feather and hold it to the Sun, now a hot coal searing into the West.

Bound by strings of spirit to bone, I would sink with it, through reeds and tall grass, to dream of you.

© JM Tiffany

Grinding Apart

I was lost without words, wind, or plans. All I had were charts and a map of a city.

I’d seen the dead and learned the violence of imagined prophets. Few emerged from their madness to wake in the future, yet I found my way.

I recalled desires, mutinous memories of affections I’d stolen.

I looked away as a feeling cleaved through the ugliness of grinding apart.

I tried to fight and broke down, leaving only lessons and a chain of nervous thoughts.

All shape and color flew away. Half-dreams shouted, “Out this way!”

Instead, I shut my mouth for a thousand years.

I denied them as I denied myself for I could not speak above all I thought I was.

©️ JM Tiffany

𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙋𝙝𝙤𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙨

Faceless. Apostate. Inhaling smoke. Visions of broken seals via luminous downlinks. The reflective declivities and optic rifts of onyx polygons. Thundering emanations. Clawed incarnations of noxious intents amid irreal divisions in polymorphic data. The numinous, the numb, and me: A stagnant unicorn stuck in sleepless iterations of maladroit karezza. I ride golden waves and listen to the whispering chatter of algorithms. Kissing anthropophagus lips, I tremble and ooze until woven through with madness and warmth. Dreadful and dripping, we are noctiflorous. Black photons entangled. © JM Tiffany

The Value of Tears

Some weep at the sight of beauty. Some mourn for the fallen dead. Some sob at the pain of rejection. Some sorrow over their own suffering. Some wail at the misery of the world. Some lament what deeds they have done. Some grieve for what is yet unfinished. And some there are that cry not at all. I do not wish to be the latter for they that do not weep are ghosts in a dead world. The Earth is a desert without tears. Nothing grows that does not drink from the Heart.

©️ JM Tiffany

Obsidian Butterfly

I have this recurring dream in which you transform into a swarm of black butterflies.

In a chaos of dark velvet you suddenly disappear.

I tell myself that I don’t believe in signs and portents, but it fills me with dread.

I want to disappear with you. I don’t want to fly alone. I want to blend with you until only our softness stirs the air.

I flutter my lashes against your cheek and whisper wishes in your ear.

You giggle and spread your wings.

©️ JM Tiffany

Free

Open your eyes Misery isn’t inspiration Suffering isn’t art Stop whipping yourself To write with your blood The stories that howl of wounds There is light when you open your eyes What it reveals may not be pretty But what it heals may set you free

©️ JM Tiffany