Linnet Phoenix is a poet who lives in North Somerset, England. She has been writing poetry for years. Her work has previously been published in Impspired, Punk Noir Magazine, Raven Cage Zine and Open Skies Quarterly. She also enjoys horse-riding.
What creature have I become? Curled tight I lie, hugging myself. Precious time is mine to waste. I curse my underbelly exposed. That I can scratch out clear skies, tear the sun's eye from its socket to dissipate these radiating aches should come as no sharp surprise. Feel heartfelt and twice folded. A letter written in black ink bleeds all colours of a rainbow's prism held aloft in rain-soaked dictate. Without a prayer to raise hope. Nietzsche's pin-pricked bubble left God deflated, limp, lifeless. The angels drifting as homeless.
We never rode wooden stick horses not us, our majestic imaginary steeds finer by far, all bright colours glowing as silken manes flowed up our faces. We trotted back tracks, through twittens cantered cajoling each other onwards, heard heart hoof beats in each given gait our footprints felt all across those fields. Down to the Dell where we would dwell wonderfully wasting our free rein hours, our creativity carved kingdoms on trunks of fallen trees we jumped or rested upon. The game we played contained no limits free flow words gathered as we grew stronger, lives lived longer, brought new loves. We rode our final farewell slowly.
This morning's light is liquid. Its daffodil drips are falling down coating the gaps on sable tarmac. Leafy shadows sprawl mosaic carpet beneath warming tyre tread. The engine hums a deeper tune. Torque tongues lick this hill climb, vibrations a soft reminder this pull is not without horsepower. Over the stone-faced wall the woods are liquorice deep, a sweet invite to cool tranquillity. This momentary escape a break from routine monotony keeps giving precious gifts, the firmament criss-crossed in jet trails. It makes me smile. An unmade azure sky bed, crumpled clouds spread out. I tuck my typed note under a Marestail of cirrus. A bucketful of sun-drip love.