Shining, Shattering
I wanted to explore the literal meaning behind overused phrases and metaphors, such as “pools of light,” “it was like time had frozen,” and “it felt like flying.”
Poem 1: Distant reflections
I once dreamed that light didn’t shine. It fell from the sun and dripped through the windows, sliding down the walls and making little puddles on the floor. As dawn slipped into day, the puddles merged into a brilliant, slightly translucent layer. Most days, it was soft as light smoke. On sweet summer days, the light was deep and dense enough for children to play hide-and-seek. It eddied and swirled as we walked. I went through an empty room and saw the soft, immaterial gold twirl away, with a gentle glow. I dreamed that we danced. Legs and arms guided the light around the room and fluffed it back towards the sky. As it drifted down, we swished more up. The world was light, and we were the world. We fell onto the floor, into the bed of light. We watched it swim and settle. Evening fell and light rose and returned to the hidden sun. The world is dark, but we shine.
later, alone. dark seeps in. it oozes from the cracks you tried so hard to fix. that little line in the wall, the cracked paint, the peeling pain, the cuts on your wrist. the light surrenders, it never cared anyways. nothing cares. if the darkness is so inevitable, why not give in? no more struggle, that was all for nothing. the deep dark first cools your left wrist. you dip your right pointer finger into the blackness, and find quiet resolution. why curse the dark when it gives us freedom? now you know better. you see a pool of dark in the corner, under the cracked wall and the peeling paint. you dive in.
Poem 2: Control
Today I imagined time was frozen. Things seemed perfectly normal. The meticulously made beds, with their fluffed duvets and swept floors. The delicate dried roses in the expensive vase. Once they meant something. The sophisticated maroon walls the color of wine, or blood. The heirloom couches no one sits on. The beautiful paintings of horses and ancient relatives, comfortable in their prestige. The elegant bottles of wine under the ornate mirror. I walk into the next room, hoping to see something abnormal. Perhaps I’m fortunate to see something different. I see someone, a faceless person. It takes a second to set in. They have the knife gripped tight in their hand, the sharp tip half a foot from their chest. The blade is already shining with the blood from their arm. Their cuts glisten in the still sun. They are calm, finally they can escape a world that has done nothing but hurt. Time is frozen. I know they are about to end it all, and once time thaws, I will be pushed back into the room I came from. And they will end it all. I will rush into the room, hold their bleeding body, and know that I was so close but still too late.
I close my eyes and see. Darkness twists into reality, a pane of thick, rippled glass that blurs everything. I see soft outlines of color, desperately thudding against their bleary bounds. The glass doesn’t crack, doesn’t shake, doesn’t care. I stand alone, hopelessly wishing for the colors to break through.
I open my eyes, and see wings. They aren’t delicate. They don’t shimmer. They are fierce, assured, strong. They are black, the tips dipped in red, the red of dark flecks in dried blood. I run, and they catch on the wind. I run faster and faster, every frantic step leaving my heaving breaths behind. The air is fire and the wind is knives. Everything burns, and as the world is ending I fly. But soaring is death. The desperate climb disintegrates into a mangled crash. My wings are broken on the ground. I lay in the bleeding wreck, wishing I could relive the pain of discovery.
Poem 3: Finale
It rests upon her blessed brow,
Child of a childish vow
Blushing with silver, soaking in light,
Its praises swirling scenes recite
Her tears are pearls, her blood adorns,
Jeweled scepters, daises sleek as thorns
A fallen star, an angel’s nest,
A frozen wave, its foaming crest
It softens sounds, it clouds her eyes,
Creeps down her throat and stifles sighs
No smiles slip across her face,
No companion solitude replace
Loved by all, loved by none,
Tears wash her shining soul to dun
Process
Although they were inspired by specific metaphors, these poems started mostly as stream-of-consciousness pieces. Most were written during one evening when writing felt like an efficient way to see what I was thinking. One was written in my English class, and revised during Physics (sorry Ms. Walker and Mr. Tirado). When I went back to revise the collection, I was amused by how dramatic my subconscious is. It felt like editing someone else’s work, which was an interesting way of looking at my own writing. Writing this collection taught me how accommodating my teachers are, and the benefits of writing past my bedtime. And somehow, this won a Gold Key at the Scholastic Arts and Writing Awards.
Charlotte Adele Edlund Almond
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Charlotte Adele Edlund Almond
Charlotte Almond is a sophomore in high school and co-president of her class. She is on the varsity cross country team and pole vaults during indoor and outdoor track season. She used to act at her local theatre but now runs lights and sound and does stage managing. She likes reading, baking, playing piano and hanging out with her two bunnies—Apollo Artemis.
