ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
I miss the graveyard lilacs
perfumed by memory
and watered by a stream
too close to unmarked headstones.
I miss the soft grass between the
Maple trees and the Winstons,
mother, father, and baby girl
all asleep in tangled roots.
I miss the sound of Sunday's best shoes
on polished, engraved granite,
Where tap dancing never disturbed
anyone at all...
And picnics after Memorial Day
were filled with fresh flowers and balloons
floating above perfectly mowed grass,
and hide-n-seek tombs.
perfumed by memory
and watered by a stream
too close to unmarked headstones.
I miss the soft grass between the
Maple trees and the Winstons,
mother, father, and baby girl
all asleep in tangled roots.
I miss the sound of Sunday's best shoes
on polished, engraved granite,
Where tap dancing never disturbed
anyone at all...
And picnics after Memorial Day
were filled with fresh flowers and balloons
floating above perfectly mowed grass,
and hide-n-seek tombs.
Literature
Seasons..
Time has the essence of which we do share
In seasons and nature beyond compare..
Blanket the fields with the white of snow
Draw in its beauty, of which we do know
Feel on your cheek, a soft winter's flake
An icy cold breath, in awe we do take
Cold it may be, but still we adore
the freezing cold winds and starkness galore
Stretching for miles, this blanket of white
Short are our days and long are our nights..
As gently as snow begins to melt
A warmth in the wind is often felt
Whispering high in the rustling trees
Reborn is spring on a fluttering breeze
Green replaces, what once was so white
To give to us all, a glorious sight
Literature
Purging
There are moments
As I sit here in the dark.
Where that brief light of happiness
Echoes
Just beyond my fingertips.
I wait,
in hope for a dream
That can never be fulfilled.
A history that will never be written,
And a tale that won't ever be told.
A legacy of truth,
Of pain and torment,
Of lust, delight and love
That lingers deep within my heart.
It is empty.
It is hollow.
It is void of sensation
For a simple touch in itself will
Leave it ashen.
Would it be
That a darkness churned
From the strength I do have,
deep within
And for a moment,
I can see a hope,
a glimpse of light that teases
just beyond the reac
Literature
Conversations With The Dead
It's always the same,
every time we talk,
or rather...
every time -I- talk.
You never say a thing.
Nothing to contribute.
I don't think you even listen,
but then I don't know
that you can hear me...
can you?
On and on, it seems I babble,
starting with hello.
There's never a response.
I tell you how my day went,
all the latest gossip,
all my stellar achievements,
all the crushing blows.
Still there's nothing from you,
as if you were nothing
more than a statue.
Anyone who saw me,
would think me mad,
or talking to myself.
It's rather hard to continue
this...non-relationship?
One way streets are fine,
for car
Suggested Collections
Throughout my life, my grandparent's property bordered the local graveyard. As a child, I viewed this place more as a park than anything. I learned to ride my bike there, had picnics there, saved injured birds, made snowmen, and pretty much conducted life as usual there. It was quiet and peaceful, and certainly not a place to be scared of... at least for me. And so I have fond memories of what it was like to walk through the hedge of lilac bushes, into that peculiar world of ashes and happiness.
© 2010 - 2024 Foxfires
Comments23
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Sounds like you had an idyllic childhood 
The poem has an easy flow, without needing to rhyme. So charming!
The poem has an easy flow, without needing to rhyme. So charming!