Back to the Noise

In response to Photo-Fiction #20

It was quiet where I was,

It was peacefully slow,

And all that was,

Was in rhythm with what is,

And all that is,

Breathed slow, sweet life, in with abandon.

It was quiet where I was,

And it inspired quiet in me,

My heart slowed,

No more frantic beating,

My breath slowed,

No more frazzled inhalations,

Of all that toxic,

Spilling from,

Machines and,

Mouths and,

Speakers and,

All those places,

Forcing hate and hurt and disharmony.

It was quiet,

In the way that a soul at peace,

Is like a river,

Still but flowing,

Every contributing to the better,

In the way that,

Calm skies can still,

Shelter and sooth.

It was quiet where I was,

And I miss it,

I will miss it,

When I am returned to that place,

That sent me skittering,

Terrified of what I was becoming,

What I became,

In the noise.

 

Fragile

In response to Photo-Fiction #12

Don’t touch me lest I bust,

splintering into fragments,

a million tiny pieces of me,

that won’t let itself be put together.

Don’t probe me,

even gently,

no digits need invade my space,

lest I be deconstructed into all my constituent parts,

and all that is left,

is what’s left of a shattered self.

Don’t touch me lest I become aerosolized around you,

and float on a breeze to a better place,

better than this that would have left me for dead,

after,

it,

happened,

in the quiet clearing,

sun streaming thought the trees,

I though these things only occurred under the veil of night.

This invasion of self,

the forceful taking of something precious,

When happenings took place that leave you,

not quite broken,

but too sensitive to be touched,

lest you burst…and there is nothing left,

but the beautiful memory,

of a rainbow you used to be.

Fever Dreams

In response to Photo-Fiction #6

Mother  moon bright and fat,

In full bloom within her hallow,

Spilling in through my window,

Shining truth on the destruction in our wake,

We’re awake and staring,

Still and wondering out our window,

At the light that drives all lesser things into hiding,

Behind silvery clouds,

Sporadic starlight shines timidly,

And the girls we were dance through thoughts,

Paper rainbow windmills in hand,

Bright sparks,

The scion of mother moon,

With her hallow,

Before mirrors became windows to terror,

Reflecting scars unseen,

To all but she lying in the wake of her own destruction,

Awake under the glow of Mother moon’s hallow.

©Michelle Toussaint. All Rights Reserved