driven to motion by a fleeting glance
all he acted upon was by and by a chance
the Lady did not protest at all
and by and by the night
her flower did fall
now the man
harrowed in flight
escaped, a shadow in the night

© 2012 Sarah Jane 

by Robert Herrick

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may, 
    Old time is still a-flying : 
And this same flower that smiles to-day 
    To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 
    The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run, 
    And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first, 
    When youth and blood are warmer ; 
But being spent, the worse, and worst 
    Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time, 
    And while ye may go marry : 
For having lost but once your prime 
    You may for ever tarry.

that empty bottle
turns fingers to fists
that howl of sorrow
escapes from her lips
these broken bones will heal
these bruises will fade 
but that scar on her heart
and that hole in her soul
will forever remain 

© 2011 Sarah Jane

leave me be,
let me see
what it is
I need to
breathe.

© 2011 Sarah Jane.

tylerknott:

There are certain and altogether unalienable threads
that tie me together and are wound so tightly around
each other that they create the framework for these
tired bones. The skeleton that will one day be covered
with the skin of my experiences and the scars of longing
and some ache that stains it…

this is why
               the birds fly
this is why
               the crow cries
this is why
                my heart sings
this is what
                morphs winter into spring
this is love
                 what it means to be 

© 2011 Sarah Jane

lilysofthefield:

Tomorrow’s headline
of the greatest adventure,
composed symphonies
and tragedies,
and the sea.
Discoveries and 
treasures found
under park benches.
The Chicago Times.
The unsaid truth
and forgotten hope.
Wishes, wonders, and whispers,
enchantment
and question marks.
Flower seeds,
witches spells,
nursery rhymes,
fairy tails 
and history.  
Band-aids
and kisses.
Memories.  
Stolen time
and mathematical
equations.
And poems.
These are the things
I carry in my back pocket. 

(via hnamed)

Chapter I
Autumn

Home is where one starts from.
T.S. Eliot

            The door crept open, bringing with it a sliver of light, illuminating a portion of the bleak and barren room. She sat, huddled in the corner farthest from the door, clad in a threadbare white cotton dress—the one she had received for her birthday a year ago. Her hair was strewn about, unkempt, a refulgent and fiery red. Burnished with trepidation, the gray-green of her eyes shone through the stray tendrils of hair. Moonlight seeped in by way of the boarded up windows, the soft glow bringing out the stark contrast between her pallid skin and the black and blue contusions that scattered her body. Clutching a tattered teddy bear, her sole source of comfort, she strained to identify any signs of him.

            This little girl, christened with the name Autumn, was but eight years old. Yet somehow she knew a darker world than anyone should ever know. It was the world she lived in, her home—if one had the gull to call it that. The knowledge of how such atrocities could occur does not come easy. When confronted with any wrong, most are able to identify it as such. Most encounter questions, demand answers. Most strive to put up a fight. Not Autumn. It was not that she was weak; no, it was because she knew nothing else. She had no right with which to compare the wrongs that had been done unto her, as the case often tends to be.

            Her father, a man all too fond of his whiskey, had a heavy hand and was quick to use it. The man also had a certain obsession with fire, at which Autumn fell as the crux. He did not loathe his daughter as his daughter loathed him, but instead felt that it was his duty to strike the fear of God, the fear of Hell itself into her soul. The fact that he enjoyed witnessing the pain and suffering of his only child was merely an added bonus in his eyes.

            There was a draft wafting up from the crevasses in the floorboards. Autumn was cold. She averted her eyes for a split second to her bed, where a blanket lay. She heard the faint, familiar sound of screams echoing through the night, muffled by the presence of closed doors. Her eyes fell shut, and she attempted to separate herself from the world, to place another barrier between her and reality. The screams faded after the clock struck ten, the pattern was holding strong. Lord please no, she prayed. Autumn was all too aware of what was going to happen next.

            Her father stumbled into the room carrying a bucket, a bottle of whiskey, and a matchbook.