The heartbeat of the whale-throat sea is slow, pushing a world's blood: blue heavy with history, into prophecy that licks into waves like a dragon's tongue frothy with wind and disbelief. But I believe – my red rhythm recognises something floating furious, my own pulse dances in the bigger beast's drum. And creature, we scream the dirt and silver of the storm, eroded limbs and salt-eyed strong breaking the line of water into a circle – myself into myself back up to the surface. C. LJ 2025 (Inspired by Six Wild Crowns)
It thundered unkind across the island like a tithe taken in the dark for seeking sanctuary. The force was roaring on beauty - why blow on stone already smooth, scatter water with water? Yet the dawn was an empty lung, a casual sun strolled across the sky the stray cats stretched into the light, Unnerved. Your turn , the towers of palm said, rustle-less; to leave your questions with the storm, the thoughts that bite each other. A white dove flew from a terracotta roof, the sky a fire blue neither were thinking about rain. LJ Ireton, 2024
Seven years of not close enough: of lust embroidered buttons, your bristled cheeks ruby flush with the me you can't have; you would shiver, King. Now you act like you don't remember anything, glare with impatience at the goblet you drank from, turning my bones pewter. Did you taste your wine, notes of clove while lifting your hand, a sign for another? My eyes flash silver, teeth clenched from the edge. I am everything you wanted to undress, except the present tense. C. LJ Ireton, 2025
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