Emily Ann Scott is a Freshman studying English Literature & Classic Civilizations at Florida State University. In her free time she writes poetry and fiction novels, reads philosophy, and plays guitar. Her writing style is both romantic and dark.
A Pigeon’s Death
A grey-washed backdrop
and a pile of dead pigeons;
the artist’s hand shakes, aimed with precision.
A cat’s claw, to pluck out the heart.
Wings spread open, feel
nothing, never, nothing at all.
They sing no more to the sun;
Dust to feathers to dust…
I don’t really know what to write…
but I know the music starts,
the rhythm jumping keys and bounding
Percussion ricochets promises,
Kept and long lost.
Pencils scratch marks into stone, into bar stools:
written in permanence for now.
And I see his face
through it all,
through the moment,
through the next, and the one after.
And I sit in silence,
sloshing scorches of yellow honey.
I delve in delusions:
You, you – you, me, and the next.
The piano kicks in softly, achingly –
a slap in the chest
when the heart-meter had begun to fade
and simmer away.
As long as you loved me
I was okay.
Jazz and the blues
couldn’t hold my muse,
but are all that hold me twist-tight now,
through the dull times.
I flick bottle caps
and they clatter
to the like-dirt floor.
My face distorts in cracked amber glass.
White legs and black heels dangle freely,
eyes are fixed, nails etched and chewed
to the bit
when bitter ended?
No, began five hours earlier…
blue straight lines
with wet splotches clear, with wet splotches
One red streak plummets…
I ball-up the paper,
This is where my story starts
This is where my story starts;
fingers threaded through shadows,
ballerinas with newfound grace,
topsy-turning pasts swirling
in midnight, smothered dust motes.
Particles illuminating constellations,
destined to return, to be returned
to one another,
to reform the soul – dormant, frozen over
in seeming permanence
from time’s endlessness.
Two, three, four similar faces
all with different smiles:
waxed on, sagging from Heaven’s rays,
dripping in baptismal water.
Love penetrating, crevicing,
abandoned, hollow mansions;
ripping them apart board by board.
Hung skeletons with empty futures
now barred away, thrown in furnaces
lit by Hade’s furies,
forever alone together, as they should be.
The rebirth of mirrors
like an infant’s first recognition,
light piercing vases for the first time.
Rainbow angels in cacophony;
worshipping, blasting trumpets
to a multifaceted melody.
Fireworks burn down old diaries;
the pages curling, fluttering
owl wings under the stars
as I sit and whisper goodbye to an old me
in midnight calligraphy.
Now one heart, pale lips,
living with fearlessness
until death do us part.
This is where my story starts.
Broken brick walls, wall –
Desolate, barren shrub: angry but dead.
festering with ants:
sectioned bodies and pronged, tittering legs.
Ashen flesh, musty, and musky breath
overwhelms the hinged bar next door, unhinged:
shingles and boards, crimson stone tumbles down,
deteriorating as the sun is swallowed into night.
Little souled shoes bang in time like a pendulum.
He’s coming, he’s coming soon.
Diminutive palms harden, splinter, bare teeth tight.
He’s coming; he’s coming soon, soon.
A tumble weed hits corset-covered legs and rodents skitter,
burrowing away from the chill.
He’ll be here… He is coming.
Leaden lids fall shut to jar back open, back up.
Curls agitate, torrent, block sight as her head dips forward.
Bottles crack inside, hysteria and sodden drunkenness
clog nearby ears, two ears:
Tomorrow will come alone.
We are delighted to present the first edition of The Last Word’s Poetry Thursdays. Every week we will feature one poet’s work. Submit to firstname.lastname@example.org