My scent will entice you.
My taste will bring you back.
The more attention you give me, the higher I climb.
And while you’re distracted by the things that make me appealing, I’m wrapping around you tightly.
Too late will you realize that I’m strangling you.
Too late will you remember that I’m a weed, not a flower.
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Falling up
We were two souls lost in the darkness and talking to each other throughout it was slowly tethering us together. We were building the foundations of our world. Where no one could find us and only those we allowed could enter. We wrapped ourselves in a bubble of fantasy and insanity and we felt home. We weren’t religious, but we created a god and worshipped at each other’s feet.
By Tiffany Fairfield5 months ago in Poets
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B. A. Durham’s False Memories blends dream and reality in a seamless mix. As his father, afflicted by Alzheimer’s, fades away, the narrator is haunted by a dream that may be a memory, returning to him insistently. The piece is full of wonderful detail (the father touching his lip where once there was a mustache, “but now he is clean-shaven—he has been for years” — and moving in revealing the complexities of a family’s life. A worthy winner which shows the power of dreams to influence us.
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Comments (1)
I love honeysuckle but I'm not sure I like the idea of it strangling me. I'll be watching it more closely.