a dark quill
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The truth had long been concealed, Whispered a voice beyond the veil; In a grave manner she revealed, What had caused her heart to fail. She whispered of her sorrow, She’d been forced to confess a lie; Time no longer could she borrow, She had been condemned to die. Barefoot to the gallows she went,
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Hushing the voices, a dark quill shattered. When I listed my books from last to first and realized their titles formed a complete sentence, I was stunned. It was not something I consciously planned, and yet there it was: a cathartic trio of books wrapped up in a sentence. It seemed more like a message
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Whisper white and empty,A blank page,A still pen; Aching pain and plenty,A string of words,A lion’s den. Write well and perhaps,A good read,A time when; Fall back and relapse,An empty basket,A barren hen. From my book: A Dark Quill
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I’m surrounded by the dead, Their memories in my head, Their photographs by my bed,I ponder what lies ahead. Their thoughts through me seep,Their pains ache and weep,Their agonies cut quite deep,My words through them seep. My writings are their choice,The whispers are their voice,In remembrance they rejoice,Their memories are my choice. I must pen
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The red berries on the bush in the backyard were the only color that bleak morning in November. My eyes sat fixated on their crimson coats, for everything else seemed as dead as I felt. I sipped my coffee, eyes transfixed, mind blank, body breathing yet dead inside. My skin appeared as grey as the sky
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I wished it hereAnd I watch it fly,From the northern cornerOf the eastern sky. The weary travelerI had come to be,Many lonely milesNow far behind me. I had touched the sky,A glistening golden hue;My soul was remindedOf all it once knew. Yet in time it fadedAnd it flew once more,From the southern cornerOf the western
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Don’t think for yourself,You’ll get confused or lost;We’ve got all your answers,And they’ve all been glossed. Only we speak the truth,And there is much to fear;Yet with us you’ll have hope,To our rules you must adhere. This way to the promise,Our unquestioning sheep;But should you speak out,Guilt upon you we’ll heap. For we know too
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Eternal ache In a forgotten soul,Eternity pennedOn a fragile scroll;The scalesHave much to weigh. Perpetual existenceIn a forgotten way,Fate fallenOn a stony brae;Emptiness increasesThe weight of us. From my book: A Dark Quill
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Happiness had never really existed. Situations and circumstances masqueraded as such, but genuine happiness had escaped me. If I had one excuse why it had, I had a thousand, but none of that seemed to matter anymore. Excuses were no longer acceptable. The time had come to face the facts and remove the mask. Happiness
SB LACROIX 