I put my heart into a bottle
stuffed it away. Out of me. Out of sight.
I’d grown weary of it’s whispers
nagging me through my busy hours.
It was getting harder to focus on all I needed to,
on who I needed to be
with it’s tales of dreams and hopes long forgotten,
long abandoned at the fork in the road
way back when such things were still possible.
No, it can’t be. Can’t ever be. Wont be. Not for me.
Silly stories, silly heart
Time to grow up.
At the edge of the cliff I threw the bottle into the ocean
Watched as the tides carried it away
over the horizon.
That night as I slept, the whispers came louder still
Woke up in a cold sweat feeling the hole in my chest
Empty and void.
Yet tales of better tomorrows, hopes renewed
swirled all around me.
See I had not realised that I could abandon my heart
But my heart would never abandon me.
Playing around with a song idea. It’s half done, and the idea is mostly there. But just wanted to hit that publish button and put something out there.
I set myself on fire to keep you warm
You say that you love me
but you can’t see me burn
Bonfire on the beach beneath a sky full of stars
And I could do it all night babe, for your smile
It’s just that through the smoke, the stars dim for me
So I begin to wonder about Life’s possibilities
Love that invites to another world
where fires burn to light the way
and when i arrive it feels like coming home,
Coming home to stay
They were coming! He tripped over roots and rocks and sliced his hands and knees.
In his mind he saw only his daughter. Would Little Ayla understand? He spent a lifetime locked in his cramped room writing books by oil lamps. And now those books were burned to ash, by the orders of the government who sought to punish him for disobedience and disruption. What did he know of disruption? He was a teacher not a warrior.
All he did was show his students their inner power. Revolution had sprung.
Panting, he thought it odd that even in this moment, he had inspiration. He would write and teach till his last breath. Dipping his finger in the blood that trickled from his slivered palm, he wrote on the sleeve of his robe.
A sharp pain pierced his shoulder, and when he reached towards it he pulled out an arrow. He could barely hear the sounds of horsemen approaching and as he fell his eyes rested on his own script on his sleeve, Love yourself.
The image was so evocative of magic and I’ve been reading about true self love as opposed to regular TLC. True self love is more difficult and life changing. And it is our own inner magic in a way. So this is where my mind took me when I saw this image. Thank you to Goroyboy for providing it for this week’s prompt!
Written for FFfAW (Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers).
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