(I Will Never Forget This—)
(I will never forget this—)
.
They brought siege engines to your town,
Armies to the valleys of your body and the plains of your skin.
They brought mercenaries to carve the sword off your arm.
The fires are lit; the people
.
are afright. They run akimbo, packing what little they have to hide in
the citadel,
Protected by cranial bones and a mouth barred shut like a gate.
We are hidden, but we are not.
Your eyes are windows
.
To your castle—see the servants rushing to prepare, prepare
For siege, prepare
For battle, prepare
For death.
We bear scars from the last skirmish,
Blast marks from the last catapults to try and bring down these walls.
.
Yes. That is where these bruises are from. That is where these fears
are from.
.
They light their catapults.
.
(—I will never forgive this)
.
—knight in broken armour (y.c.)
More Posts from Wandering-writer-poet and Others
Everyone loves a good tragedy.
The broken pieces scattered in an abyss
The quiet pleading in the rain
The silent aftermath when all is
said
gone
dead.
Everyone loves a good tragedy,
but I suppose the tragedy is us, isn’t it?
Too young to give up
Too old to make up dreams
that fly us from reality on golden wings
— until the tragedy is them (y.c.)
Photography by Hilde Engerbråten
Harsh, but something to keep in mind We so often get caught up in our own worlds. Sometimes while we’re busy basking in the glory of our achievements, we forget to share that joy and pride. Sometimes we just need to step back and remember that we’re not the centre of the universe.
Home is teddy bears
exuberant cheers
child’s laughter
parents’ pride
Home is quiet 2 A.M. conversations
thoughts too loud for music
words too raw to speak
pen ink fresh on a page
Home is tea steeping
cookies baking
alarms beeping
clocks ticking
Funny how so much of
Home
is what I made from
Everything
you never gave me
— Yushan C.
Sometimes forgiveness is swallowing a match,
swallowing ten.
Your veins ignite like gasoline-soaked wood
(are your doubts the gasoline or your convictions?)
(does it matter?)
.
Sometimes it’s a bit like suffocating,
Water rushing in through your nose and you’re
Drowning
(are your memories the water or your dreams?)
(does it matter?)
.
—y.c.
Quiet
She was quiet
But not in a nice way
She was the silent storm
The blow that came out of nowhere
The one you never saw coming
She’s been through hell you can’t even imagine
Her scars are a shield
Her words are weapons
She can’t be controlled
Tamed
She is the wild wind
The rebel without a cause
The broken fallen angel
She’s beautiful like an ocean in a tempest
Like a phoenix rising from the ashes
She walks in the wake of battle and turns her head to the blood-red sky
And smiles.
She is quiet
Not in a nice way
She is quiet the way
Lightning
Makes no sounds before it
Strikes
— Yushan C.
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Writing excerpts and poetry on nostalgia, regret, identity, optimism—just about everything, really.Main blog: aceass1n
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