When the truly profound is
discovered, it can be tasted.
The moment is a mouthful of
savory freedom. It is beauty
bursting on your tongue and
sliding down your throat
straight to your heart.
It is sweet, sticky residue on
your lips. It is an aftertaste of
memories that breathe.
– m.m.p.
On the most hollow of mornings
She would stare up at the sky with
Open arms and boldly command,
Give me courage!
At once, a
Rich, blue madness would
Spiral through her veins and
Settle in her lungs and
She would find herself able to
Breathe again.
– m.m.p
A few dangerous, lovely words,
Precious, precarious, gentle birds
Have settled down and stuck
Inside my head.
I lash at them with a
Miserable little lie or two,
With a noise, a voice that
Protests against me
Chasing them away.
Either way,
It is no use.
It seems these
Words, these
Beautiful, impossible birds
Have forgotten how to
Migrate.
-m.m.p.
Why is it that
The more abundant
Love is
The harder it is to
Say so?
The more we care,
The more we
Hide our hearts.
The more we care,
The better we get at
Drowning honest affections in
Scared blue water.
When we walk away
We hesitate, our feet
Caught by an invisible string
That urges us to say the
Words we fear might
Slip out from our lips.
But then the line snaps and
We keep walking,
Walking away from the truth we’re
Terrified to tell.
-m.m.p.
She’s a shadow,
Singing softly, smiling slightly.
She makes up her own lyrics to the
Melodies she knows, and she
Keeps them vaulted away in her
Mind, humming them too quietly for
Anyone to hear.
She’s a shadow,
Slipping behind others in the day,
Filling in their footsteps with
Silent, ghostly grace,
Her hand leaving an
Invisible trail as it skims across the
Fogged glass wall that
Separates
You and her,
Her and them.
She is unnoticed, unseen.
But at night, she is everywhere all
At once.
There’s no ignoring her then.
She’s a shadow, with a
Secret name, a blurry face that
Dares you to
Remember her.
She won’t cry when you don’t, but
She’ll have a harder time forgetting
Than you did.
She’s a shadow,
Not just any silhouette.
I wonder if you remember
Now?
She’s yours.
-m.m.p.
I no longer worry about the
Door slamming shut
Behind me.
Its deafening sound is
Not startling, nor its
Vibrations
Unsettling.
I no longer worry about the
Door slamming shut
Behind me.
Wood against wood isn’t
Too loud, it’s just
A cheap imitation of
Thunder.
Why do we fear that which is closed?
After all, it’s safer this way,
Locks upon locks upon
Life.
I no longer worry about the
Door slamming shut
Behind me.
I have become unaffected by
What that rush of wood
At my back
Means.
I hardly care if it opens
Again,
Really, because
It’s safer this way.
It’s better this way.
Right?
-m.m.p.
There is a
Small forest
In my hand,
Sugar-brushed and
Trembling silently in the
Icy embrace of the
Fading
Cold.
-m.m.p.
Something is different.
I can hardly speak
Over the
Tremendous sound of this
Quivering, invisible
Distance.
My bones are
Stronger and
My hair is
Longer and my
Heart is
Wiser but
I’m still having trouble
Remembering how to
Breathe.
Something is different.
Did I get
Left behind
Again?
Or did I move
Forward
Without
You?
Something is different.
Is it you?
Or is it
Me?
– m.m.p.
Silent, nameless room
Doused in bright white
Winter-morning light and
The tingling sense of something
Lost
The furniture reeks of absence
The walls bare and blank like
Minds losing memories
One vivid photo
Slipping away into invisible ash
At a time
Ghostly echoes of voices and laughter
Whistle through this room
Like a gentle, stirring breeze
It sings out the name of the
Forgotten one
Who will haunt this place
For all of eternity
With fragments of stolen joy and
Shattered memory
Who can say
What is lost?
-Megan M. Phillips
Golden light dances on my skin
Soft white slashes, blue gray wool
All up above
My ethereal sentinel
The sky
I’ve seen beauty my soul can’t capture
In icy water trickling down cool, damp, dark rock
In crumbled color on the ground
A litter of leaves and life
In blue tinted heaps of earth which
Tower high and mighty in the
Never reached distance
Those moments are so much better than
Memories
But pale versions of these experiences are
All I have
The ghosts of fulfillment haunt my
Hollow senses
To regain my trust in the
Goodness of this reality
I must once again
Experience that vivid feeling
Found only in a
Wonder filled
Moment
Of simply
Being
Words With Wings 