dicht.es / dense.words

A poetry blog of a bilingual writer. Visit my "more about" page for more About me. feverishkites.tumblr.com/ is my personal blog where I reblog things that I enjoy. If you want to ask me something don't hesitate, I don't bite!

38 Notes
reminders under our feet

beneath the salmon colored ashes of dusk
there is a lonely ripple
of the ones that loose hope to the tenebrous
and the ones that have entombed their love
beneath the starry fields of sky
shoveled deep under the coat of the earth
unable to hear wind move / there are no ears,
or the song the merls repeat,
but scrape leftover bones
of ancestors in a perenial way
to remind us with their tap on roots
- making them grow and expand up
that they are not to be forgotten
in closure of all days.

49 Notes
my sweet matryoshka / mothers heart

isas-bell:

the curiosity does not go away
even after the countless times
of opening a matryoshka doll;
the way they nestle in another

not being able to grasp what i was looking for
as a child, as a juvenile
nourishing on the palpable rather than the in between,
now knowing i was looking for life
inside handpainted and hollowed wood
where the face of a mother pouts warmth
or a sliver lost in the already small.

and still i think i can open the last doll
almost sad that the minuscule and feeble
of things won’t fit in.

50 Notes
demons lulling at our awe

isas-bell:

timid to stand amongst the hue-
less. malice, merely craving
to exist is the notch
in our ear. where the lurid
seem to be contemplating
and lulling our fluroescent
interior, to be less and
more of the somnolent.

angst wont ever abate.
just as night will always fall.
we could rearrange each
of the other; foresee.
now that we know.

49 Notes
my sweet matryoshka / mothers heart

the curiosity does not go away
even after the countless times
of opening a matryoshka doll;
the way they nestle in another

not being able to grasp what i was looking for
as a child, as a juvenile
nourishing on the palpable rather than the in between,
now knowing i was looking for life
inside handpainted and hollowed wood
where the face of a mother pouts warmth
or a sliver lost in the already small.

and still i think i can open the last doll
almost sad that the minuscule and feeble
of things won’t fit in.

61 Notes
The lid popped and out flushed space

Steps are thumping vibe into my flesh
past itching skin,
you are not made for this world and neither am I
but then we must both be a sprouting ache
from different planets,
antithetic times; this star
of opposite sun exposure
there being no similarity in the juncture of our thoughts.
Growing as indifferences and currents
with Lyra lapsing in our canthi
a human clout beyond our fists,
alive, yet already blown out extinct.

69 Notes
a lisle into bruised forests

inclined to tooth
the present the here and this
onto meanderings of the past,
knowing well they stick mementos
with the ants and with their hills
where there is the silence of a world,
while not a spoken word lingers
in the smudges of tree sounds and murmurs
none but seeds and forest furnitures
that are being damply wrapped
and held to be traveling afar
along the oriental express full of sin
and manes that are no more.
but to walk along mango orchards
and cross borders by foot can be done,
it can be done.
 

73 Notes
volant as if winged / to eat our pi

i suppose you are always flying too high
to come down and kiss me barefooted
where i stand on the seams
someone called this a lonely sight,
as the air up there
is quiet and thin and unbreathable to be in
with only numbers in your pi[e]
scratching out what is uncutable.
for still in this withdrawal i know
that you have turned your insides facing me;
there is love in the aperture distancing you.