lamplight gardens.

a forest of golden bulbs aglow in my night,
each fleck so small, yet how they flood the abyss!
the palmate rays affix a whiskered kiss
upon my wistful soul, and like a match
this simple act ignites my candled heart.
how can something so intangible burn so bright?




peace.
-lise.

just a box in a cage.

If one's "essence", if you will, is contained within a physical body, which in turn is contained within a building or room (assuming the physical body is currently inside, reading blogs), and the building is contained within the Earth's realm by the ozone and other such atmospheric layers, and the Earth is contained in space by the nature of gravity and the laws of the universe, can one's essence ever be truly free?




peace.
-lise.

some old, some new; consoled by the view.

peace.
-lise.

passerby.

whilst walking I chance upon a passerby
and within each eye I see a story;
deep folds of tragedies and comedies.
I walk pass, and they walk by

and I bid adieu to all those lines I never read.
but I know they’re there, they always are.
just in a different language, or order, or rhyme.
but I always wonder: can they see mine?

peace.
-lise.

meta morphin'.

We change every day. Usually the changes are so small and so gradual that they escape our notice. But they still happen. Despite this, though, I have always felt as though there is something intangible in us that remains fixed; unchangeable. And no matter how much we evolve and grow... we are essentially the same. What is this stationary quality in each of us?

peace.
-lise.

w/e.

Yo Stephanie Meyer, I'm really happy for you and I'mma let you finish, BUT HARRY POTTER IS THE BEST CONTEMPORARY MAGIC-BASED BOOK SERIES OF ALL TIME.

(from here.)




peace.
-lise.

the skin within.

our skins collect memories like shelves collect dust
each layer, a story; each layer, more rust.

new chapters are plastered by the laminate masters
they deftly craft you, a breathing chef-d'oeuvre.
marbled with moments of love and of beauty,
painted with pictures of doubt and suspense.
speckled with scriptures and spider-webbed lies,
whiskered with seconds of hellos and goodbyes.
our lives are all written, too often we find,
with verses and stanzas of the most sesquipedalian kind.
the layers continue, each concealing the last;
though we cannot erase the present or past.
but if we could wipe it all clean, no more dirt or debris;
then what could be seen, and who would we be?

peace.
-lise.