Brushstroke on Canvas
- midnight majesty -
In the depth of night, where shadows play
Midnight majesty holds sway
A world of darkness, yet filled with light
Dreams take flight in the velvet night
Beneath the moon's gentle gaze
Secrets are whispered on the breeze
Stars above, like diamonds in the sky,
painting a picture for mortal eyes
Trees bow low, branches swaying, as the wind carries ancient tales
Creatures of myth and legend roam, eyes gleaming in the moon's pale glow
Waters sing a siren's song, luring wanderers to their doom
In this realm of night, there is also love that blooms
About the Creator
Sarby Salawie Luweleng
"Join the journey, challenge, and revel in the magic of storytelling. Always buzzing with ideas, constandly weaving together new worlds and adventures. Explore captivating articles igniting curiosity".
Keep reading
More stories from Sarby Salawie Luweleng and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 17 hours ago in Poets
Comments (1)
Your enchanting words evoke a captivating image of the nocturnal world, well done in capturing the allure of the night in such a captivating way, thanks for sharing!