Halcyon and Hell: Prose Poetry

Before we were trapped, we had nursery rhymes in our smiles and technicolor cartoons in our eyes. Marigold cheeks engraved with red constellations carved by English teachers and moon craters for dimples. Before we binge ate cynicism cookies, there were slices of sunbeams for breakfast and playdoh dreams in our hearts.


We are the generation of postcards before the internet, sending stamps of hope to the government. Before these invisible cages, our existence was childbirth of art, a sunflower muse to Roald Dahl.


But now, we are knights caught in 3×3 chess boxes, daydreaming about pinwheels of freedom made out of arcade teddy bears and toy horses. Bidding adieu to the days where we meant everything we said because we thought everyone did too. We learned to weave a spider web of lies like the novels of Nancy Drew. Our parents were lighting candles while the world was burning, our parents were sleeping while we stayed awake to grow.

My friend texted me, “How did you grow up too soon? ” I laughed and gifted her poetry of shoulders carrying the burden of Jupiter moons. They molded their clay from trauma to toxicity. Somewhere between days of hands on my ears while hiding in the closet to days of musical nightmares while hiding in the closet, I grew up.

Midas touch was rusted and we suddenly became iron nails. Barter system of loneliness and validation in red hearts came into existence. We learned to spend our identities, the evolution of reformed currency.

We are drowning in content but we are hiraeths for content. Home is nostalgia and LOST signs shine on our earrings like dangling spiders. The moonlight bedtime became a smartphone sunrise while we scrolled through body positivity and self-love accounts. We yearn so much that we made yearning an aesthetic. We have an unsent love letter to ourselves in phone Notes.

We became renegades, we were charged with vandalism for spray painting our hearts with protest poetry because they don’t see. They don’t see that the world is burning. The world is burning and we are trapped. They don’t see.

I no longer know where my politics ends and where my love begins because my identity is a bleached crime scene. I am tired of growing, I am tired of cages, I am so tired. But I made a three-fourth promise to my lover to live for saving the world so art can exist, so she can exist. You see, her existence will always be childbirth of art and a sunflower muse for Roald Dahl. Do you see?

//”Halcyon and Hell”// Enigma

Copyright © 2016-2021 Enigma. All rights reserved.

Picture Credits: Enigma (Inktober 2020 Art Day 18 Trap)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Website Powered by WordPress.com.

Up ↑

SilverLeaf Poetry

a silver corner for words, verses and more.

David Redpath

We're all on a road to somewhere.

EternalDiscoveries

Once in a while you need to be able to let go of the world and sooth and relax. This is the place set up with the best options...

Enigma

A surrealist spilling ink and dwindling between enigmas and epiphanies

artsy words

where dead metaphors meet dead feelings

The Gorgeous Wrecks

Unchartered paths, treading desires and my way out of the labyrinth

Unordinary Life

Beauty is found in the most unordinary places

LIGHTHOUSE OF RHYME

Creation of Beauty through Words .

Discover WordPress

A daily selection of the best content published on WordPress, collected for you by humans who love to read.

Bottled Metaphors

Words I lost before the end of winter.

Raw Earth Ink

spit, mixed with dirt - muddy words flow

The Ethereal Unicorn

Words are wild, so is my heart.

%d bloggers like this: