S&S (Rough) 

Sitting in idleness with-

the creeping ivy growing high, 

oxidized metal blends in with the dirt,

paint peeks out from underneath the bubbles of rust. 

.

& –yet

.

Still the small bell sings, 

(there upon the croooked handles)

A joyful reverberation leaping for the trees. 

Remanents of neon green tassels shyly flutter,

taken in hand by a curious and friendly morning breeze.

.

PN: work that hasn’t been workshopped will have titles accompanied with “(rough)”. 

Tumultuous (rough)

Just as my worries gather they ebb-

drawn out to sea.

The decaying parts of my spirit float on it’s discordant waves.

Glittering foam catches negative thoughts,

they disappear into sand-

become the dreams and castles of children,

my sorrows transformed into well intended moats.

Sunlight bleeds into night,

the dying of a gull resonates down the alley of the beach,

water gnaws on a clumsy tower made of sand,

it draws the melancholy back to me.

Connecting Threads 

The pursuit of writing has lead me here: caught between ideas and associations. Severeal threads are held loosely in my left hand. In the future I’d like to study writing, specifically the impact writing has on society (the way it inspires and destroys). I’d like to study behaviors, patterns which exist in people from their micro expressions to the repetivive cycle of their revolutions. My dream was to combine my love of writing with my curiosity of people, together I could study the patterns in literature and their rebellious effect on society. Unfortunately I stumbled upon a new thread of interest, Death. My interest in death is not so simple as a wailing chorus or a melancholy sonnet. I am intrigued by the unifying principle behind death. Everything decays, everything dies, yet- nothing can (supposedly) be created nor destroyed. We are in a cycle of transference from one state to another, doomed to repeat ourselves. The only way to break the cycle of repetition is to build upon a collection of knowledge, to write and archive our human experience. Content, I figured I had braided my threads together until I saw a picture of a galaxy. only, the picture was not a galaxy but a pupil, and the pupil was in fact a galaxy. In a picture I saw a pattern shared infestesimally and infinitely. My life could have continued peacefully if I did not stumble on the name Fibonacci and discover meaning in the spirals doodled on useless class notes. The threads were still manageable up until I learned of emergence and started dreaming of tapestries greater than my current level of skill.