Whisper
whisper
Stolen flowers from the cemetery
answer sorrow’s questions
as the thin plumage of reality wearies.
© Margaux Emmanuel
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More Posts from Theinscrutableescapee
the bus
Doleful faces at the bus stop. I was one of them. The clouds were vehemently spitting thick rain, smiting the cobblestones of the streets, and trickling down our wan faces. Drowsy, I closed my eyes and let the cadenced sound of the rain lull me to sleep. Alas, the bus of perdition came. I never dared to get out.
© Margaux Emmanuel
les fleurs ne poussent plus de l’autre côté du mur
Les oreilles de la nuit se tendent
un petit moment
dans le silence
je te cherche dans les profondeurs de l’éphémère
mais la mémoire est une plaie
éternellement ouverte
les rives maudites refluent toujours
le reflet de la mer de tes yeux lourds
les ruelles du quartier manifestent l’indifférence
tandis que ma plume fredonne une absence
mais cette lumière languissante s’éteindra
quand ton visage lointain
s’embrumera.
© Margaux Emmanuel
vacant soul
Suffocating in between four walls
empty
But inside me breathes
an untamed waterfall
clemency
in a timeless room
waiting to pull the trigger
around noon
children scream
stuck in a dark daydream
pills flow out the cracks of the door
while I am dead, suspiring on the floor.
© Margaux Emmanuel
the streams downtown
I found the rip in this ocean, while intently watching the dance of the waves’ froth. The water has been pouring onto me, feeling the depression of my collarbone, stroking the tear in my skin, echoing this hollowness inside me, for much too long. Swimming back to the rip, to stop this flow once and for all, means letting it caress my heart while I drown, letting forgetfulness take his seat. I found the rip in this ocean, and it’s intently watching me.
© Margaux Emmanuel
scared & scarred
Lying on the couch, scared of dying sane, drowning in spicy leather. Hungry fingers are yellow, but there are no cigarettes to be smoked. The thirsty throat burns, but there is nothing left to drink. To heal. Postponed trials leave bruises, but there are no words to be spoken. Letting the sun descend, afraid of heresy, breathing thoughts to be condemned.
© Margaux Emmanuel