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Of Internal Ache, Eternal

I speak droplets of confusion’s bane;
Bottled and shaken. 
Ataxia turning in churned carbonation,
All the while humming a worn fabrication: 

I’m handle and spout to my twin’s acrid tears — 
Her sane on the wane in the high ward. 
Seared, overgrown gardens of cerebral fears; 
Ignoring the internal soothsayer’s sneer…

…A lie, notwithstanding 

Let me cry; wring my hands, ‘til their bones turn to dust,
Now I catch long-craved boons in quelling what I must.
Until this uncertainty breaks from its cage, 
We shall sip of my seething mistrust.

- Amy Strom

Soul of Spine

Fear blooms from her betrodden lungs
In poisonous waves, like Houndstongue
Barbs biting deeply into whomever brushes past
Grave words are etched into her eyes:
Do not attempt to quench my cries!
The closer they get, the deeper the sickness seeps in.

And it’s a lonesome life she lives
Revoking all she ever gives
To save them from that burn of her spewing affliction
Lovers flee fast from her embrace
Though she’d dismiss them with raw haste
Before all else: Safety, in shadow. Her prison.

- Amy Strom, 2013.

A Breath of Fresh Art

To carve from yourself a masterpiece, 
Requires the most hurting need. 

And for once you’ll become who you’ve wanted to be, 
Just as big as the sky; as the sea. 

Outlines leak from that spot in your inspired thoughts, 
And become a bright reality. 

Though, one thing’s to imagine, and one to compose. 
Days of slow lamentation to bleed graceful prose. 

Now you’ll wait to compare with the way that you rose, 
In the hour of your greatest boast.

- Amy Strom, 2012.

One One One One

If I awaken one more night from a rainy fantasy
Listening to his indigo laughter
Living in his poetic allegory
Story beads sliding down his hair
To find he isn’t really there…

One more alarm wrenching me from his arms
Away from his soft words
Spoken through used coffee filters
His muted decaf kiss that stings my lips
To find only cracked mirrors and mist…

Each eleven eleven I catch hears me beg
To keep asleep inside those dreams
Nested in a teal-tinted world
Where his feet dance circles
On the teary side of my weary lids
And run wild down that paint chipped path of his
The one that crossed mine for a time
In moon-soaked eighty-seven, spring
When we shared the waking world, unknowing
I was coming… He was going…

If I awaken again with those tattered loose ends
Strewn among my wet, twisted sheets
Where that woozy dream of him repeats
Without a fighting chance to speak…

Of how I love his star-drenched smile
The way he makes my pain worthwhile
Of how I wish he’d paint me
In his pieces, abstract style
And how his coffee kisses taste
With fingertips placed on my waist

Now upon every eleven eleven
I’ll wish for that dead spring,
Nineteen eighty-seven

- Amy Strom, 2013.


I’ll cast my soul out of my chest into the frozen ground.
With what remains I’ll wish that by your spirit it is found.
In longing that you linger there I’ll gamble on a flight;
In death you live, in hope I’ll die to learn from your insight.

- Amy Strom, 2012.


Below, a floor of shifting, crumbling plates,
held together by hope —
The memory of something that never was
Seeking escape;
Awaiting freedom.
Once planted there to grow,
it rots instead; the soil over-wet with sorrow.

Above, a sky of shifting, drifting clouds, 
masking what’s beyond.
The animals that float there drift in peace,
laughing at gravity,
Awaiting the ache that will bring them back to Earth;
Seeking shelter.
Relief from pounding wings;
From tiny heartbeats.

- Amy Strom, 2013.

Buried Girl

‘Neath wet soil and gravel she sleeps in a dream, with ghosts to keep her company.

Oblivion’s slumber was sunk like the sea; just deep enough to breach.

Submerged underwater blue afterlife sways, while currents pull laboriously.

Her imprisoned mind clutches familiar needs, and rots her chance to flee.

Between dawn and nightfall her fingertips bleed, and dye the oceans burgundy,

While breakable algae grows thick on her sleeves, she shivers in the deep.

She can’t scream or fight where she’s anchored below, as coldness numbs her hopelessly.

The war between floating and just letting go, leaves her unfit to breathe.

But silence is soothing and rest a relief; could nothing cause her soul to leave?!

The ghosts in the shipyard beginning to scream: it’s here she needs to be.

- Amy Strom, (2012).

Élan Vital

So then I let go and I fell far and fast,
Into overcast dreams of a shade from the past.

Each thought seemed to settle on visions of him,
The way bees pinpoint traces of sage on a wind.

Sad weather may drift o’re my transposing mind.
Yet I have the desire; moreover, design.

Preserving his breath in the heart of my chest,
Where he’s never forgotten, withal, laid to rest.

Now somewhere within this affection starved soul,
Stirs a hunger to make the unreal tangible.

And he can’t be revived, so I’ll travel to him.
From the outermost world, to the timeless within.

And I’ll gladly embrace the sting of my demise,
If it means being able to live in his eyes.

- Amy Strom, (2012).

Sere Nocturne

Lost amidst the smoke trees in the deep, unending wild,

Walks the wayward spirit of an outcast river child.
Drifting where the grim gloom guides her feet,
She finds her spectral semblance weary, hollow, incomplete.
Wandering eternally beneath the tide of night,
Hunting for the faintest trace of veiled ancestral light,
Harbinger of supernal retreat.

Her shadow-box heart contains eventide codes.
Cimmerian secrets of nature unknown,
Of radiant splendor she’s never been shown;
Of gems from the gloaming’s wide reach.

By the weeping river she lies, blanketed in stars,
And floats atop the cloudy waters, honoring the dark.
Dusk-like gaze turned up toward the moon;
She chases flashbacks waiting for a moment opportune.
Taking all the beasts crepuscular beneath her wing,
Waiting in the shadows; dreaming, longing, lingering
To make her last escape woefully soon.

- Amy Strom, (2013).

H 2 Aeronautics

Under thin moonlight currents I become a bird,
And sail from stream to stream.
Sea foam stars light my way to the tree in the clouds,
Where my thoughts are ever free.
They fly up to the planets that rotate above,
On wings of afterglow.
Frail spider web filters choose which will fall back,
To Earth who hangs below.
I search for the portal carved into the trunk,
Wings pounding as my heart.
But just like before, there isn’t a door,
And my theory falls apart.
So I ride waves of birch bark and try just to smile;
One can’t smile with a beak.
Perch next to an owl on stardust covered branch,
And find out I can’t speak.
While I wait there I try, and I let out a sigh,
Which howls forth as a wail.
It startles me so I fall to Earth below,
Forgetting how to sail.

- Amy Strom, (2013).

Shadow Dance

He’ll smell of wet leaves when we blend.
Fine trace of lace and lily stem.
Of clumps of clay and pressed Wild Pink;
Droplets of cloud-colored ink.
He’ll recreate the meaning of
A taste of death;
The scent of love.
Like silver slivers of a dream,
He’ll stir in me a shade unseen.

He’ll feel like branches, mica stone.
Like cold, cobwebbed canary bones,
And windswept feathers sometime lost,
Rotting ‘neath moth-eaten moss.
The true fixation of my soul —
To haunt a ghost
Without control.
He’ll smell of a wildflower field.
I’ll breathe him in; I will be healed.

 - Amy Strom, (2013).


Yarn flower. 

      Effloresce in the story garden.  
             Shrivel when your covers run parallel. 
Tell us over again when you’re opened, 
      of spring, 
             when the ink river dribbled black for miles. 
This bountiful morpheme harvest,  
   for your hundred-some wings to hold, 
      should be pollinated, transplanted, reaped, over and again.


- Amy Strom, (2012).

(via wingedmind)



“Shadow Dance” by Amy Strom

some kind of beautiful


“Shadow Dance” by Amy Strom