Writers of the imperfect maps- Iulia Halatz

The naiads have splurged with roses.

Swirls of scented air hover above their clearings.

Without petals and stars they cannot dwell

beneath the glass shine…

Day dreamers see their unfading beauty

in the sands of the fountains.

Their love is

imprecise

built on a foundation

of unicorn-green grass…

Their skeleton

is composed of myrtle and oleander

and moss-covered lungs

heave along with waters driven

by tide…

Their flesh is irrational atoms

that laugh the blood

and rhythm of life

in the veins

that sing the helplessness blues.

White hymnal doors

flung open

on Midsummer’s Eve

at the harvest of ripe and lofty words

and lady’s bedstraw

they found

in the flicker of buried treasures.

Their words shield

the scent of a tuberose

and shelter

the spoils of the evening.

They sing in the wind

“Leave this war with me!”

It is never too late

nor too soon

to wager

on a tear.

These are no Great Songs of indifference

They are the Great Songs of out-of-time

and out-of-life

that light

this new dominion

which is the old…

29 petals of all the flowers

in the world

line up to write a map

draw sounds and borders

in as many secret alphabets

as breathing proof that

Language is not like the sun,

heating and scorching

but like the moon

keeping secrets

and the arcane magic of the night

throwing stars

in the lilacs’ claws

till dawn.

Words are lamps

they shimmer in the vilest of places.

They make dreams

out of particles and matter.

The words in the

29 secret alphabets

burn for all.

 

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

Author: Aurora Phoenix

I write as Aurora Phoenix. Nine months ago my world shattered. Unexpectedly and dramatically arrested, I have been incarcerated ever since, as I await the unbearably slow machinations of the system. Devoid of verbal communication that is unmonitored, pen and paper have served as my truest outlet for grief, fear and angst. Armed with toilet paper for intermittently copious tears, my motions experience and reflections are PaperMate poured. In this chapter of my life, I write.

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