“Stories”

12th May 2017

A pickled orange is not a fruit,
unless you tell me so.
These lines along the sky carve
heavenly spheres into the backs
of fallen titans, hollow and soft.

Feeble blackbirds will arrange
a noose for the duckling,
a poor soul lacquered, rendered
in oily clay and musty brine,
a heart small but sweet as nectar.

Trees painted in the wrong picture
cluster in vibrancy, and reveal
the plainness of the misty blues.
Trees stand righteous, tall amidst
lonely street lamps, nature revels.

These corn fields hand stewed
in days labour and years prayers
pattern, reflecting every tear lost
from heavenly sorrow and
every joy pinned in gold ribbon.

Extremity can be found in the
depths of sea, waters found
in every land of broken soil.
These fish speak sparsely, with
thin fingers and muscled lips.

Christopher is an eclectic SF English student, full of passion and drive. Interested in individuality and those challenging convention; inspired by Emily Dickinson and her writing through self-expression.