Tag: Writing

Child of Clay

Forgotten planet far away
Was home to the one made of clay,
The one with sparkling emerald eyes,
With gleaming hair reflecting sunrise.

Her hair was home to falling stars,
Her gentle hands would cover scars,
Her laughter—music in the night,
Her mind—a precious jewel to find.

Her crown—mirroring Saturn’s rings—
Caressed her forehead like sweet dreams.
She wore a dress of day and night,
Of sacred stardust, specks of light.

Born when the universe was born,
She was a child unknown to all.
She lived among the galaxies
And she was all that she could be.

She lived her days among the stars,
Creating magic from afar.
She greeted passing meteorites,
A magic pearl full of delight.

And every day her graceful touch
Gave birth to paintings of stardust.
The universe’s harmony
She guarded with such precious glee!

She knew the daughters of the sun
And how their bold dance had begun.
She knew the brave sons of the moon
Who guarded worlds from dark and doom.

She was the centre of it all,
This magic child unknown to all.
Her loving touch gave birth to life,
A stream of magic from her heart.

This poem is dedicated to my amazing best friend, a person whom I can always talk to. Their gracefulness, inner beauty, creativity and sensibility never cease to amaze me.

– Patricia

Broken

Drip…
I lie still in lonely cave
Drop…
Outside a vengeful storm.
There’s so much fury, vile rage…
I wish… to never have been… born…

Drip…
The grey ceiling—wet and dark
Drop…
Down sending tears to cover me…
So many worries, I could drown.
Yes—cease existing: I’ll be free…

Drip…
Pours again from stalactites
Drop…
Echoing through the endless cave,
Thus giving birth to stalagmites.
Yes, bury me—I’m a disgrace.

Drip…
I lie broken, torn inside
Drop…
A cave of shadows, yes.
They yell at me from the outside…
Yes, I’m at fault… Could I forget?

Drip…
And the light I see no more
Drop…
And there’s nothing left for me.
I lie and wait in numbness—low:
Forgotten, pained, in misery.

Drip…
In the end, I can’t be saved
Drop…
I hear the echo—deafening
Drip drop… The cave, the darkness fade
Drip drop… And only silence is what’s left…

Drip…
Drop…

– Patricia

Secret Place

In the darkness of the forest
Lies a still and hidden lake.
Water—clear, reflecting moonlight,
Waves—begun by stardust flakes.

I approach the secret painting,
Fascinated by its world.
I come closer to the water
And I hear the unsung notes. ǀ Fine

Silent painting full of music,
I am drawn to its lone sound.
I hear strings, the lake is calling,
Pulling me towards its world.

Barefoot, I approach the water—
So mysterious, so pure.
It caresses fragile footsteps,
Stillness: no longer endured.

I step onto mirror surface,
And to dance I thus begin,
I don’t sink in empty darkness,
As the magic sounds I feel.

And the music becomes louder,
Coming closer to my soul.
I dance on the sky’s reflection,
Setting free the thoughts I bore.

I can touch the world that’s up there,
That of suns, of stars, of gold;
In-between two worlds, two wonders,
I can feel that I’m reborn.

Music, peace and something greater:
I can touch infinity,
As the sky, the lake, the music
Form a world of purity.

I dance until rays of sunlight
Start their journey towards Earth.
I awaken, music gone now
And return to ancient shore.

Everything then disappears,
A mirage it seemed to be.
But I know the truth that happens
When the nightfall comes to be.

I will hear the music’s calling
Once again when sunset comes.
Ancient trail will lead me to it,
Among new suns I will dance.

Da Capo al Fine

– Patricia

Autumn Stillness

A heavy fog comes from the mountains,
Brought by a howling autumn wind.
It spreads through long-forgotten valleys
Where cheerful birds no longer sing.

Its veils of never-ending secrets
Cover the empty flower fields.
Strange stillness is the sleeping nature,
Covered in lifeless, rusty leaves.

Sad music rises from the stillness:
Of grieving strings—a violin.
Accompanying grey and static,
It then becomes one with the wind.

The sky, so grey, so melancholic,
Yearns for a blue, a gold of old,
As it sends tears of heavy sadness
Towards a still, unmoving world.

A heavy fog came from the mountains,
Bringing along the requiem,
The song of death, of reigning stillness,
The messenger of reigning death.

– Patricia

Loving Myself

I pick a wilted rose from ashes
So grey, so cold—the fire gone.
The anger once again relapses,
As I want no part in the vow.

I do not care for its sweet promise,
As underneath are only thorns.
A flower that I want to vanish
With all of its unspoken words.

I watch it burn and turn to cinder—
Symbol of unrequited love.
For me, from me—my fingers linger
On what once was a ray of hope.

So red, so promising, so fragile,
It was a failed attempt at life.
But I don’t care for tender whispers,
Be they from my own grieving heart.

“For me, from me… I do not want it.
I don’t want what you want to give!
You’ve never loved me! I don’t want it!
It’s now too late to still forgive!”

I picked a wilted rose from cinder,
So red, a love I don’t deserve.
I look down at my bleeding fingers…
Huh… I was right… (It) had only thorns…

– Patricia

My Story—Part I

Oh, I wanted my story to be that of a hero,
Of someone who defeated the struggles and the villains.
I wanted greatness, purpose and hope—all these united,
And I could see the ending with happiness and magic.

I wanted great adventures, with friends and magic creatures,
Togetherness, a promise that we would last forever.
I wanted truth and laughter, a family, a smile:
Everything that resembled my soul’s utmost desire.

I wanted dreams of silver, of sparks of life and stardust,
Courage and endless stories of facing fears and darkness,
Wisdom and exploration; to never cease believing;
Me as myself forever, an undefeated spirit.

– Patricia

White Noise

Raindrops falling from the sky
Have become my lullaby.
For what else is there on Earth
That can make me feel submersed
In a storm of peace and joy?
I am calm and, now, devoid
Of the anger which once poured
On my mind—I was subdued
To a dark world which I bore
After years of no control
Over what I am and how
My own self I disavowed.

Raindrops falling from my eyes
And the words from my own mouth
Pour out from the world within
What it was and what it seems.

I touch figures—gloomy, grey,
There’s no night and there’s no day,
None are black and none are white:
They are grey and they unite
Dreams, reality—and pause;
Static, noise—and raindrops fall.

And the rain becomes white noise.

– Patricia

Skies of Hope

Rays of burning gold descend:
One more day comes to an end.
Warming amber paints the sky
And the clouds are beautified.

Magic trails are left behind,
Seemingly endless and white,
As the airplanes fade away;
A new border: night and day.

Forests turn to fiery black,
As the light turns into dark,
As the valleys—once alive—
Become still and renounce light.

Golden daylight disappears
Behind distant, empty hills;
Fireflies now take its place
And the veil of darkness face.

Rays of burning gold descend:
One more day comes to an end.
Warming amber paints the sky
As I hear the lullaby.

Sacred whispers touch my ears
And I stop in place to hear.
Soothing song surrounds my soul
And embraces me as whole.

– Patricia

Canvas in the Night

The night sky once again awaits
To be a canvas of the soul;
A world of dreams it will portray,
As all the stars I now control. ǀ Fine

I take a breath and paint the moon,
A regal vision—only her;
A smile now waltzes on my lips:
The queen will reign from dusk till dawn.

I take the paintbrush yet again
And paint a dance of falling stars;
They travel to the ends of Earth;
Although new-born, they travel far.

I paint a sea of gleaming gold
And watch the waves send warming light
Towards the world I hold so dear,
That’s never been so still and bright.

And, star by star, my universe
Turns into galaxies of dreams.
I paint and paint—the canvas full,
Awakening forgotten tears.

I paint until the morning sun
Sends rays of daylight from afar.
My painting fades, I close my eyes;
I will return and cover scars.

Da Capo al Fine

– Patricia

Return to Childhood

A mighty castle far away,
With hidden creatures made of clay,
That magic land of fairytales:
I want that kind of story.

With evil dragons spreading fear,
Princesses that have disappeared
And daring knights whom all hold dear:
That kind of great adventure.

With magic forests, fairy dust,
And evil witches you can’t trust,
Their piercing eyes and haunting laughs,
Who soon will be defeated.

With treasures, elves and leprechauns,
Enchanted flowers, short turmoil,
Triumphant heroes on and on
And challenges awaiting.

With good and evil, day and night,
Heroes and villains who would fight
And happy ending—my delight:
Just white and black and no grey.

Stories in which the good prevails,
With happiness that never fades,
With victories, glorious days,
With innocence and pure heart.

Stories with dreams that come to life,
With never-ending, sweet delight,
In which future and hope unite:
Return to happily ever after.

– Patricia