dausketch

i. You make your way along the garden path, (Careful of the sharp ninety-degree turn), Past low-hanging eucalypts and birdbaths, At the wooden door, “Lawrence H. McGrath”, (Or maybe the little plaque is gone now). Did you know in Christmas a wreath would hang? Like open arms the door would stand agape Strewn with shoes and bags and wrapping paper And hats and balls and car keys and people. ii. That wall you look at had our family Crest: “Salus in fide”, blazed the grey knight. Then the tile would turn to carpet: bowls of Potpourri would tang the room with something Like nostalgia. That sunny window was Her favourite

i. a voice, paltry amongst a rabble of the faceless: "what's your favourite shade of blue?" a ubiquitous eyelash, the steadfast second hand of a clock that turns. ii. i used to amble through twisted corridors and veiled passages just to glean the familiar strum and heartbeat of a tune i had never heard before. iii. there were blind fish i'd heard of, lambently constellating the dark of the abyssopelagic dungeon with their lamenting bioluminescence. iv. i sometimes wonder if we are all blind fish ambling aimlessly through our infinite dungeons; we are speckles and blemishes upon a canvas of galaxies. v. my favourite shade of blue is w

sometimes during the day, i realise that i have not said anything in a couple of classes, and that my fringe is laying low on my eyelashes, but i haven’t brushed it away from my face. occasionally, on my way to class, i see that i am dragging my feet, and that my sighs are audible, as though i wish for someone to hear me, but when i am asked if i am alright, i smile and dismiss them. every so often, i will not feel a heavy weight in my heart, but rather, more of a hollowness resting in my collarbones; bone marrow vanishing, dripping out of my eyes and draining me like limp spaghetti through a colander, straining and flipping and

there is a girl. she lays on her bed and listens to planes flying overhead. there is a girl. she peers out the window to gaze at the twinkling fairy lights that shine like stars. there is a girl. she lies on her stomach and explores the world through a glowing screen. there is a girl. she strokes the wrinkled spines of her faithful friends smoothes their crinkled pages stacks them neatly on the shelf. there is a girl. sometimes she goes outside and lets the wind mess her hair and ruffle her clothes. there is a girl. she writes poetry, too.