Andi Leigh Writes

A pinch of something In a small innocent drink. She knows better though.

Time for teatime too. Sweet tea for me; bleach for you. Does cream help the taste?

A swift pick to fix. Quieting troublesome mind. Proper lad at last.

Undusted portrait. Chipped paint around rotting frame. Smile left abandoned.

Rainy morning. Lay in bed, And smell the rain On spring grass. Aromatherapy Through open window. Sprinkling from clouds, Soaked into earth, Trickling down to Dry root; parched. From dead of winter To resurrection, A reminder of cycles, Without end. And new beginnings Paint in the distance.

Behind the mirror, A world unknown to many, Until life parts us.

Unsought bloodthirst From forsaken soul. Now a soulless void. A pitiful actuality, enslaved. And urges to drain life adeptly, Out through plump veins; A potent inconvenience. Unbearable centuries lost, Alone to watch loved ones fade. They leave to the light, To waltz without nefarious beasts. Sweet as juice, metallic hint of taste burdens the craving. Missing the blessed light of sun, Dreading blackened starlight. Prayer will not soothe hunger In the pit of rotten stomach. Pining for silver or stake To deliver death at long last. At long last.

A treat left for you. In a decorative dish. Just don’t smell poison.

Take a peek through the magnifying glass. Can you see the little ants? They dance. Working together, so tiny, so alive. Hunting for scraps of food left behind. A miniature system of governing bodies. Building their city in places so rocky.

Shedding old skin, Becoming new. Regrets in dirt, Delicate as dew. Scratch off scales, Soft underneath, Show the side Hidden beneath. Kind outside, But weary within. Fresh outlook, With thicker skin.

Stepping graceful, twirling too. Light as a feather footing In freshly-dewed grass blades. Bonfire roused, lifted towards The banded green on black sky. And haunting music braids with Juniper scented smoke, billowing In form of a cleansing plume. And in the wooded night of ritual, Hands raised above flowered heads And fingers pointing to the heavens. Offerings made and whispers burned, Sent sailing with the ash and ember. Praying for guidance and answers. A blessed night of prosperity.

There was a man with a wicker chair. He was proud, he thought it rare. Boasting of sweet craftsmanship, Whistling tunes and little quips. Until one day, he came to find, Nothing special of the chair designed. Mass-produced by mechanic arms. The wicker chair lost its charms. Soon his friends, they owned one too. They laughed about the things he spewed.

Marching on. Sprinting on. Into fires, Of great dawn. Aching back, Hard to wake. Vanity-struck, Cannot shake. Leave me here, Skip away. I’ll attempt, Another day.

A crack of light, through impending walls, Taunting vastness out of trembling reach. And in the darkest corner lay papers bound, Written dreamy aspirations, ideas to impeach. Empty are the draftings, the dreaming; Deaf on terrible blank-minded ears. Behind the plenty iron bars of fitted box, Remaining picturesque for too many years.

Lavender nightfall. Lilac sky dashed carmine true. Lofty starlit cloak.

Page of blotted ink. Figures dance through washed papers. The heart sees them twirl.

Your opaque eyesight Falls for tricks of simple mind. Pick the stained glass clean.

Powdered brown branches. Rustling winds bring them to dance. Winter’s last moments.

Three dried flowers, They’re resting there. Palest brittle pink, Bound with yellow hair. A knot to remember, And a ribbon of lace. Dead on the shelf Of family’s place.

Breaking away, Unrestrained. Collapsing into Fitted pieces, From unsuitable Obstruction. Crumpled image For judging eyes. And collaged Vibrant identity, Is not welcomed Into spiteful arms.

Dropped vinegar, On raw wounds. Searing, cleaning, Yet burning brightly, Matching sunrise over Sweltering mornings. Purification latching. Teeth in clutch, Weakness hushed. Disciplined frame, Stronger than cries. And veins pulsing, Rushing, heart rate Drums finely along. Well done wrap of Ashen gauze upon The tissues scarred.

Mapping out the course. But we get lost anyway. Drifting in freedom.

Gritty damp brickwork, Serving as floor and bed. Four miserable stone walls. Not a speck of sun ahead. Drinking grungy rain, The ceiling drips a great deal. Monstrous sickly rats, Had robbed my last meal.

Rip, rip, rip. Don’t rip the wing! Unlucky butterfly, Certain that it stings. Place the critter down. Send yourself away! Fragile wafer wings, Twitch; dull and gray.

A stag, glowing-eyed. Translucent and in mourning Over faded bones.

There in the mirror, A reflective smile. Teeth gritting, Tongue curled away, Truth restrained with Breath drawn in. Keep on smiling. A frown displayed? Not acceptable. Expectations require A shining demeanor. Keep on smiling, Keep on— Snarling on the Inside, spitting fierce Venom that springs To exhausted mind. Bare fangs in the Form of a cheerful Face playing a game.

Longing for winter to fall from a cliff; Dragging along the bitter chill with it. Plunging into the warming seas, Unfortunate the temperature climbs— But even so, detesting winter is more Than a pastime. Achy bones, runny nose; Flaring chronic pain on glacial days. Wishing for it to go away and bring forth Fresh greenery. But another adversary Steals the spotlight. Dusty yellow powders The outside, coating lungs, and waters eyes. Never used to yearly hurdles. Either spores Or perfect frostbite awaits on every calendar.

Damnation demise. Detrimental depression. Dreadful decadence.

Fouled-up freaky funk. Fermentation fragmenting. Fragrant-failing filth.

Marvelous mistakes. Mysteriously muddled. Melting mind mending.

He watched the campfire flare and spark skyward; sending dancing smoke betwixt the leaves of the aged willow he disguised himself under. A dull rhythm of crickets soothed his ears along with the steady song of firewood crackling. The wayfarer leaned against the bark; releasing a strained sigh while the brim of his hat covered his sunken eyes and gifted shelter to the regret borne in them. One could witness the sorrow beaming from inside himself toward the fire ablaze, praying that the flames would cleanse his uneasiness, but it would not neatly conclude that way. So he held his head down, pondering if the right choice was made. His fists clenched the earth at his sides as he longed to disappear into the grass that made up his bed for the night. He peeked through the vines of the willow that were crawling across the sky. And what he saw beyond the weeping tree pulled the breath from his lungs and nearly stopped his heart. Two stars; like eyes, staring down at him. Like the eyes that sta...