fragments of the feminine archetypes [5] the huntress [artemis]

moon graced

sliver lines

pools of mercury

bow string taut

her lonely vigil

sandal clad feet

silent over moss

chase her

track her

a crossroads ago

lost her

now who is hunting?

now who is hunted?

fragments of the feminine archetypes [4] the queen [hera]

my fair lady

sits atop her dreams and

adorns her brow with gold

my sweet lady

regal and pristine

smiles ever charming and 

her hazel eyes alight

fragments of the feminine archetypes [3] the mother [demeter]

amber bones, honey hued

against flowing wheat fields

fresh bread, its aroma wafting

comfort

home and safety in a handwoven basket

in her arms

a hearth

burning golden

fragments of the feminine archetypes [2] the maiden [persephone]

curious eyes

bask in blossoming lands

wondering in adoration

curious fingers

prodding hands

push at your imagination

curious heart

beating wings unfurl for the first time

in magnetic attraction

fragments of the feminine archetypes [1] the lover [aphrodite]

songs gleaming in pearls and jewels

sparkling

drawing you closer

feel the ocean's breath

the promising brush of fingers

soft the glamour of love

pulling deeper in

steadier than irons

lovelier than fantasy

inspiration

sometimes it comes in a mass

like great torrents, storming 

grand paragraphs washed onto the page

other times it comes in simple pieces

words splattering in droplets

few and far between

peace

cascade of raindrops on the window

grey sunlight shines dimly on a glowing monitor

mouse clicks

guitar strums flow faintly from your headphones

rumpled sheets feel like home

and if i call myself a writer . . . ?

who am i?

student, daughter,

thinker, dreamer,

friend, lover.

artist.

writer.

storyteller.

and if the story i tell is just my own?

then so be it.

and i suppose part of it is right here,

in this pocket of the internet,

possibly eternally.

artist.

writer.

crafter,

of my own story.

and i suppose that's enough.

detached

words seep like oil

dripping slowly 

one by one

inky drops

appearing on the page

each curve and segment 

contrasted sharply against stark white paper

foreign

odd

as if sprung from some strange creativity

other than my own

quotes i like [4]

“Strong enough to kill a god,

kind enough to weep for them.”

worrying

my heart beats

steady

pumping

ac humming softly from the vent above my desk

blades of grass swaying outside the window

pen tapping

mind racing

racing

racing

in circles