Young Writers Society

xiii. apollo

apollo whispers lyrics in my ear,
lyrical-whispers of whisperful lyre.
I can’t grasp the never-ending tune
he sings: the words fall slip through
my fingers like sand in an hourglass.
too little too late.
apollo’s sun chariot jostles as the day
breaks, and I wonder if I’ll ever be able
to catch the tune in time for night.

xiv. hearth

There’s no room for me here,
in classrooms stuffed with raised hands
and endless questions and knocked eyebrows.
I want to be home, by the hearth,
where the fire burns the frenzied thoughts
from my mind.

xv. Demeter’s forget-me-nots

I am a wildflower blue,
crafted from the love of Demeter’s spring
and summer hands.
Don’t forget me, don’t forget me,
I cry.
Wondering if I’ve ever been seen.
I am a wildflower blue:
I blend in with the sky,
my heart the color of the sun like
every other.
Demeter promises me for a quiet spring rain,
when Persephone comes to visit and leaves
more flowers with each footstep.
Come autumn,
as persephone leaves,
I will soon shrivel up,
a forgotten wildflower blue.