Winter Witch by Haunting Visions at Deviant Art
In the mornings in her tidy, rumpled room
she strips the bed of feathered pillows,
creates a deep, embracing warmth.
Bereft of sorrow, thought or wealth
she drifts through life lost within a sky-lit room
with linen curtains, purple painted walls.
I think of her alone,
try to guess the way she sleeps,
eyes closed, curled up in a foetal ball,
watch her dream and twist and turn.
One day I hope she’ll see,
flit among the roses,
feel each petal with her fingers,
languid, slow. She prays each night -
“Your kingdom comes. Your will be done“
- this I know, but do the angels sing?
I see them as she sits and bleeds,
until the winter witch has come.
© 2012 Louise Hastings
Photograph from National Geographic
My life has often been about chaos
and destruction, a walk into dark alone.
It isn’t pleasant there;
the words I write often sound of black.
But when mindfulness awakes me,
I begin to write of colours and of peace.
Like green is the grass blowing in the wind.
Blue is Neptune spinning round the moon.
Orange is the orange that tastes so good.
Yellow is the sun that warms me to the core.
Red is the colour I could wear and adore.
To finally be able to see
is such a wondrous gift.
There is music in the world,
and rainbows -
sometimes inside of me.
Written for Blognostics Colour Contatenation
I look into her eyes, searching for what, I
don’t know; maybe something of me? Hers
are liquid pools of blue, the colour of the
aquamarine waters. I could swim in them,
swirl down into the depths to where her
soul resides. No secrets do those eyes keep,
gazing at the reflection in the mirror.
I wonder what she sees
whilst staring at the blankness
of the middle distance, a space
of starless nights, streaks of shadows
cutting across her weightless sight.
This is her death, the way she dies,
yet somewhere in that broken mind
she breathes a restless sigh.
I wonder at her choice,
preferring numbness over life.
Her healing burns,
she feels the pain it gives.
If she knew what I knew,
would she choose to live?
It starts as I am floating on
the surface of waking, somewhere
lost in time, where swimming was
like flying, and all the fish were birds.
I am inverted, a desperate version
of myself, sublimely dislocated. I
become a thief, a vagrant, an animal
in the woods who runs and hides.
Yet something is calling to me,
something so incredible and fleeting.
It pulls me back, hands and feet tingling,
sleepy and tired, climbing out of mist.