#inflowsnetwork

[lasbrumas-archived]

for anon prompt: your ribcage is trying to cage the sun // transcription below

not with a bang but a whimper

rage douses you like gasoline, and you wonder if your fingers will ever know more than the wood of matches, clenched too tightly as they’re struck, a little flame flaring up consume;

turn your bones to charcoal, words unsaid turning to ash on an already blackened tongue, like so much paper in a furnace

you’d speak, but you’re afraid only flames will come out, a solar flare unfurling to caress their skin, crack and blacken it, embers all that’s left of your shared history

lungs burned breathless, silent superheated screams feeding your heart until it flares ––

your ribcage tries to cage the sun, but its core’s already shrinking to become a planetary nebula, too late to stop its own death

[lasbrumas-archived]

a wraith wrapped in a shawl of long forgotten pasts sits in her home having tea with the goddess of in-betweens, who hangs spider-like, suspended by a thread;

they talk of little things, left in attic boxes with promises of returning left unfulfilled to gather dust and darkness in the eaves of this lonely place;

here is the sun before it dies quietly behind the horizon, light orange-ichor, as if it fears bleeding out too violently, heart wrent open like a ripe fruit;

there is a leaf trembling before it falls from the mother tree, a final desperate clasp-gasp of fear as it hurtles into change of organized matter into mush left to rot and fester with its brethren;

these are the first stars in the evening sky, white specks appearing in the blue-black bruises of the soul, as if light could fill what is no longer with something other than sorrow;

this is the sigh before the final breath of hopes and regrets, soothsayers predicting the end in the palms of loved ones and turning them away with a sad smile;

everywhere lies a tapestry, half-finished, threads loose on the loom, waiting for someone to pick them up again, stories untold except for in the mouths of the forgotten and dead;

autumn is the loneliest time, says the wraith and cuts the web

- a sense of death in autumn // s.c. (for @eloquencenet event: imagery)

[lasbrumas-archived]

for anon prompt: our souls were made of the same kind of magic // transcription below

soul magic

weavers’ silk souls, gold-gilded, caught between two hands, gnarled but deft, dipped into the pot to dye again, of deep purples, each deeper than the last, inky black almost, wrapped around the shoulders of a woman

off to market, hawk-haggle some wares so you can bring home some food, lamb maybe, or a sack of rice, replenishing last week’s meals for a few copper coins

the sun hanging light low, in the hills, luminous purples cast as shadows collected nightly by weaver women,  gnarled hands picking at gold-gilded silk souls ready to be dyed in the morning