Aura

Aura

By: Katie M. Moss

18 February 2011

Distortion--

It's what I feel as the static of the day crashes around my brain.

Around my hands the aura is deep red. Survival-oriented,

With a dirty brown overlay: the color of my Insecurity.

The season is changing again,

But my fears never do.

They shadow me- seek me out.

They know where I live, sleep, love.

I will never reach my ideal self.

I will strain, and strain, and strain for perfection.

I stand on my parched, cracked feet,

Balancing my weight on my two largest toes.

Tomorrow I receive the news,

My life in another's hands.

My heart as designed by others does not complete my soul.

Does it?

Terabithia

Terabithia

01.26.2011 

Walking into the woods behind my house in the golden summer south,

I see them as much more, because I am a child.

They provide another world where kings, queens,and fairies dwell.

In each leaf is a story— one that I can tell.

I grab my younger brothers by the arms and coerce them into play.

The light through the trees warns us of the end of day.

But we will not retreat now from our lean-to castle kingdom,

for magic happens as the sun meets earth.

We will never be as free as we are now,

Where we make our own laws,

and we're protected by the trees. 

**One of my favorite books as a child, Bridge to Terabithia, inspired my brothers and I to make a secret fort by the same name in the woods behind our house. This is a poem dedicated to that place. 

The Other

The Other
12/3/2010

I’ll open my eyes, she says in her head.
The sunlight blurs, sharpens, focuses.
She stretches her torso, tells herself today is different.
Her brain doesn’t know it yet. Only her body.

She tries to run her fingers through her tangled hair--
Looks over. Remembers.
She sees a reflection of herself, only different--
A mass of blood, bones, a carved-out shell. The Other.

The birds outside don’t know it.
Birds go about their business, disregarding ours.
But inside, there is a war.
Of power. Of wits. Of corpses.

I’ll close my eyes, he says in his head.
It’s too early for birds.
He spins into nothingness.
His body doesn’t know it yet. Only his brain.

In his dreams, he sees a mirror.
A reflection of himself, only different.
He has her eyes, but what they reflect is only himself.   

Grey Lady

Grey Lady
October 14, 2010-- Edited December 2010

I flow through grey space

Like a t.v. screen

Like a misty dream

Grey space is grey matter. I float. I cling.

But that one thought I can't escape.

It chases me— by night, by day.

I see his furrowed, harried face--

In triumph then it merged to hate.

I tell you now-- he lost his face.

For every line just disappeared,

and was replaced by own fear.

The energy still flows through me.

But from above, and down below

is not the same as possessing.

My face, I know, It turned to stone.

No longer then, the dew did kiss--

My body formed of emptiness.

But still I stay, so in-between.

The body's gone— but still I cling.

His cast his lot,

He knew his fate.

To choose torment from me by day--

and night I lay beside him still--

wedged in between he and his wife,

for whom I used to serve, in strife.

Shadow Twin

Shadow Twin
10/03/2010

Heavy weight of freight car trains presses down like

Winter winds, like woolen blankets, like damp foreheads,

Akin to your late-night words.

Sometimes  I think I hear you on the muffled line,

Strangling your words—oppressing love, hate

But then I realize that you’re right in front of me.

Shadows never really go away.

They creep around surfaces. Fluid and agile, they slip through cracks

They slip through time, space.

They risk detection.

I tell you every day you’re disappearing.

Your shadow sticks. No need to sew it back on.

You wish it wasn’t so dark, messy.

You wish it didn’t make you so fragile.

Your other half, your coup de grâce.

When life fades, you merge.

You were always your darker twin.

Strawberry Heart

Strawberry Heart
September 4, 2010


Sometimes I feel my heart has the consistency of a strawberry frozen fruit bar.

It’s frigid, and hard. It melts under pressure,
but can be delicious to bite into.
I imagine I have a fork, digging out pieces one at a time.

I eat it myself. It refuses other lips.

It’s more delicious that way.

My brain I imagine is made of foam, like the models you see in science class.
It has different colors and labels.

Things like “memories you want to forget,” or “nights you can’t remember.”
Its foaminess expands with the knowledge I put into it.
I again hold the fork with the label “one night stands.”

                              It tastes semi-sweet, like dark chocolate or red wine.

They both taste so good, it’s hard to stop eating.
So I gorge myself on the crumbs; I bite into the rinds.
Soon, there will be nothing left to consume. 
Soon, you know, I will run out of time.

Ambiance

Ambiance.

By Katie M. Moss

July 29, 2010

Ambiance.

Dark night clouds form shadows of the legends gone before,

Of the anger from the shore,

Of the seas that part no more.

Crisp green meadows full of dew,

Full of shadows,

Full of you.


Ambiance.

Colors undefined. But unlikely. Rest assured.

You are welcome yet aboard.

Welcome to the stone-turned-melted-glistening night.

Without a fight.

You have a right.


Ice and fire. Cold, dark night.

Ship is sailing out of sight.

Out upon the onyx stone ocean.                          

Outward from the white-washed shore.


Ambiance.

Eternity. Within our sight, yet out of reach.

The ship sails on, our eyes can see,

But never touch. The ship is never tangible.

It's empty. You can't reach it.

It's not even real.

Upon it sits your own worst enemy.

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