dscn1772-2There is an edge
ever-changing, indescribable
and as you turn your shoulder
thinking the sun has only burnt
one side
the other is latticed
in marks of your exposure
as things of darkness will crawl
deep inside you like a well without end
and build with whitened fingers
their hungry descent
until you are changed
even as you taste the salt of your tears
staining your face like damage
blackening light into rotten parts
tearing your wings to pieces
it’s been so long you forgot
once you were able to climb
high into sky and feel something
unknown now like a lover
who has turned to enemy and stranger
instead without warning
the edge presents itself
in terrible hour like a sharp knife
one moment you are clinking glasses
smiling into the camera
and others remark
goodness she’s aged well
look how happy she looks
the next you are ripping the lies
from your arms, all that glitters
tearing into shreds artifice
tying together knots in hope
they can end
the sudden terror inhabiting you
always cruelest when it shows
just as you believe you might
have escaped
yoking you back
get on your knees
here you are, here you are
your toes grip the edge
you see the emptiness below
much like what lies inside
untethered, unnamed
for who can put a word
to terror? to hopelessness?
who can place a finger on the place
the rot set in and began
to devour the person you once were?
leaving a scarecrow
others do not see inside
the stuffing ready to ignite
they only see the perfect smile
accoutrements without truth
glittering like shards of glass
scattered in the night

0 Replies to “Shards”

      1. I can feel this one. By the way, I meant to tell you, I finally finished Persuasion which I didn’t much care for to be honest, and I’ve started Gone to Earth. I absolutely love it! The imagery is wonderful, full of surprises that sound exactly right. Thank you so much for introducing me to Mary Webb. I should have trusted to my mother’s taste after all, she had all her books 🙂

        1. Oh that’s terrific news! Reading your own work I just had a sense you would and am so very glad! Big smile on my face!♡♡♡ you are wonderful! ♡♡♡

          1. Right? Do you see your work in hers? I do. You both know how to bring to life in fiction prose and poetry the truth of nature so vividly a city dweller would long to walk in the forest

          2. Reading her descriptions, I certainly envy the images she finds, and the density of the writing. She does exactly what modern authors are told not to do (the show not tell cardinal sin) and proves just what a load of bollocks modern critics preach.

          3. Ah but envy not, as you are equal, that is exactly why upon reading you I seized upon her work as a similar in the way you both know how to unveil and whilst you are not a dense writer, you are able to bring many things into one poem or description in such a way without overcrowding the ‘scene’ you are so right though about modern critics TOTALLY agree bollocks is right!

          4. Reading Jane Austen for the first time in years, the thought that struck me very quickly was how she would have been bawled out of class if she’d been writing now. All those pages of insight into a character given in the form of backstory and explanation would so not have been allowed today. Show not tell! Styles of writing change, and just because showing is quick and easy doesn’t make it better or the only way.

          5. Exactly. I personally am not a huge fan of Austen but respect her enormously. The detail maiden style reflects their long days sans technology and immediacy, at times such detail can drown the modern reader, other times reminding us of what we miss in our rush through life. I can only stand it in small doses but conversely i detest the superficiality of so many modern writers especially the formulaic MFA graduates who almost write to template.

          6. I suppose that’s why she didn’t write sagas, concentrating the story on a very short time period, usually when the heroine was in line for marriage, the most interesting part of a genteel woman’s life. Nothing happens after that. She didn’t create society, just reflected it, and yes, large doses of it would bore us to death. At least she would do it in style, unlike the fast and furious school of literature…

          1. I didn’t either I thought you would be interested because I had no idea he died so young and did so much during such a short time! A bit Mary Shelly in his ability to do things so early in life right?

          2. She was utterly outstanding no wonder with her ancestry but still. Frankenstein is so underrated as simply gothic fiction yet it is a marvel of perception and of a 19yr old it seems impossible yet Anne Franke, many had such early gifts, less so nowadays I think!

          3. That she just banged it out in the such a short time too. Writing and generally looking for and developing the creative spirit aren’t taught much these days.

          4. Quite true, definitely the opposite. I put down as many books as i finish, due to this. I used to force myself to finish them but why? I’d rather read something I love than prove I can finish a much hyped book I dislike

          5. My godmother used to regularly send me the latest best sellers that she had finished with. It was rare that I ever read one to the end and <i can't think of one that was a revelation.

        1. No pressure then? 😉 I find selfishly I like your work because I can relate to it, but I’m certain even if I could not relate to it, I would still love it but probably for more objective reasons. Objectively I love your work but I am very biased because you ‘talk my language’ and I find healing and hope in those words.

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  2. My wings have been torn to pieces for a while now. How are yours holding up? Thanks for liking my posts, BTW. I’ve been looking at your stuff for a couple of years now. Funny how time flies. Hope you’re doing well.

  3. These lines got me and got me sad:
    “even as you taste the salt of your tears
    staining your face like damage
    blackening light into rotten parts”
    The outside world is damaged, every human out there bruised.
    I cried knowing how much I miss my grandpa and seeing how humans endlessly continue to cling onto their greed and selfishness and don’t realize how beautiful everything around us is meaningful and hopeful.
    Humans destroy each other…but some of us are strong together in the fight against evil. And how to fight it, with love. Love is the ultimate weapon.
    One of my favorite poems by you sis. 🙂

  4. Candice Louisa,
    Oh, my! This one is in your top ten saddest.
    You write:
    “for who can put a word to terror? to hopelessness?
    who can place a finger on the place the rot set in and began to devour the person you once were?”
    I want to say “you can” to the screen,
    but the character cannot hear me.
    That “edge” just kind of jumps out when we least expect it.
    Quite powerful.

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