Submissions by ChaseGagnon
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Legend of The Pale People
Their jungles were emerald, and their skin was pale as the clouds which draped the tiny moon that stalked them like a hawk, perched on nothing but darkness. I wandered between trees older than human breath and inhaled their scent. These people followed in the darkness of my shadow that flowed behind me like the train of a wedding gown, as I walked the narrow path towards the alter they built for me. I was naked. The blade in the priest’s hand glistened as the mortal blood was chipped away.
I looked beautiful, they said. I loved how they worshiped me in their cold realm without a...
I looked beautiful, they said. I loved how they worshiped me in their cold realm without a...
618 reads
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Prose About Love
Tonight, I've come to the conclusion that love is nothing but a pretty story mommy told me to get me to sleep on nights when I was sad. I guess that's why I'm a dreamer, afraid to wake up to the bold smell of coffee in summer. I should've know she was lying by the way she fought with dad, who I barely remember. Or maybe love is a hairy and mysterious creature who hides deep in the woods where a few people claim to have experienced it, but carry only blurry photos as evidence. I live in the city though -- there's no woods for miles, so if it is hiding somewhere deep in the treeline I'll never...
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City of Sin
742 reads
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Bloodshot Summer
My father holds the chicken's neck
as my brother swings the axe for the first time.
Blood splatters the cement
where our chalk art was once showcased
to the rolling clouds—
but this won’t wash away in the rain.
The old man’s face hangs low
like a sun-bleached towel on the clothes line
with too many holes to absorb
the reality of blood
or sway in any sort of breeze.
This tiny smile of pride
only deepens his wrinkles.
The bruised fist
that once choked my mother
loosens from the creature's head
as he tosses it...
as my brother swings the axe for the first time.
Blood splatters the cement
where our chalk art was once showcased
to the rolling clouds—
but this won’t wash away in the rain.
The old man’s face hangs low
like a sun-bleached towel on the clothes line
with too many holes to absorb
the reality of blood
or sway in any sort of breeze.
This tiny smile of pride
only deepens his wrinkles.
The bruised fist
that once choked my mother
loosens from the creature's head
as he tosses it...
629 reads
5 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by ChaseGagnon
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