Torn

By Sarah Elizabeth Lash

2014

Dedicated to youth everywhere that strive to live a life above reproach

Grecian posts stab down
Into the sunset painted earth
The world littered with Autumn
And the end of Summer’s girth

Another click, another take
My models facing west
They do not seem to see me
His hands in her hair, hers on his chest

Enraptured in each other’s eyes
The couple makes a perfect shot
I do not even need to pose them
To capture the joy they’ve got

She laughs at something he says
Snap goes the lens once more
He softly kisses her tender ear
And I take the open door

Faster,
Run faster,
its slipping
Slipping past my fingertips,
trying to hold
tight
through the dips and
dives of my
flight,
true to the wind,
I spin
flying uncontrollably,
I know I won't win
fighting against the wind
now,
the fight
of my flight,
as it slips through my fingers
the fight
thefight,
its hard
toohard,
my hands go limp
and my wings go numb
spinning, crashing, falling,
I cant escape.
the feeling,
I'm failing

Tiny child, by your parents torn apart,
I wish I could hold you in my arms; not my heart.
Unloved, unprotected, not held by loving hands;
Your demise is cheered on and upheld in this land.

Unloved, unwanted, torn and abused:
Cast aside for selfish pleasure, broken; confused.
They pursued their own lust and chased after their pleasure,
Not facing their sins but removing their treasure.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177120
Awhile back, I analyzed Emily Dickinson's poem, This World is Not Conclusion. Read the poem, and if you want, give me some of your thoughts! There is alot in the poem to think about that it was fun to write this.

_________________

Screams wrenched the atmosphere.
When the Twins crushed and killed it was called unfair.
Was it "them" or us? Questions everywhere.
All I know is God was there.

A mighty tornado went twisting down;
Homes demolished in many a town.
Death allowed to reap what was sown.
I know He was there, they were not alone.

Our soldiers give their lives in brave fight.
We let our trust take a cowardly flight.
We say goodby yet cry, distraught, in fright.
We forget they are held in the hand of His might.

My name is Mary. Though many of you may not know me now, I was once one of the most active, involved, and prolific contributors to ApricotPie, and many of you who have been here for a long while no doubt remember me.
I joined ApricotPie in 2008. Shortly after joining, I began posting a chapters of a serial historical fiction called The Shadowfields. It was written offhandedly, perhaps even flippantly, purely for the fun of writing it, while my focus and concentration were dedicated to my more serious current project at the time.

He had said he needed to be by himself.
Here, he had never been so alone.

Lord, grant me the grace…

What I want is not
immediately imminent
all the time
it very rarely pulls its
best dressed outfit on
to promenade
and
unfurl
cemented
in the world
and
want flitters to and fro
in my head
casing the space
appreciating every
angle
marking down
what's not
in its
place
hand on its
hard-hat
where it will
occasionally be
struck by
a wayward idea
a fluttering thing
and I am
having signals sent to my
taut muscles