Wrapped in darkness

I sit,

Painted into the night.

Fragments of air so thick

I can taste the stars

That break what shadows hide.

Isolated depths between

Land and sky,

Bleeds hot of its illusionary tales.

It seems cold and mischievous.

Twinkles of light in the sky

That tickle the fantasy of

A warm kindled fire.

Bursts of light that

Turn to flame-

Swift smiles of a lying face.

I dig into your trenches of


Where you burn and

That of me,

Sweet, hungry embers,

Are not far.

Like how you lied with me in

Torture of your pain.

Torment of your touch that crept

Over the top of my naked waist,

Skin soft, and calloused palms that grazed.

Finger pressed upon the lips of my heart

To hush the sound of pain we

Both now share.

I see your light,

Distant and out of reach,

Yet still consuming the empty


Of a soul’s entrapment that which

Could not express.

Cold but wrapped in warm cloth.

I Walk The Streets Alone At Night

Poem by: Bekah Turney

I feel my teeth

Sturdy in my gums,

For decades they’ve sat.

Tonight they illuminate

With noise through tingles.

Glistening eyes and an urgent mind.

Walk down dark streets,

Hands tucked warm in my pockets.

Late at night I squabble

In solitude I find,

My feet carry alone,

And nothing has come to bite.

I carry a corn poker

In my right pocket.

First thing I could find,

Like I needed to use it at all.

I feel the repel of anything

That comes to detriment,

But also my abuse

Of knowledge’s leverage I hold

On these midnight squanders

Gains a peace of mind.

This town grows thin of safety,

But I push its limits

To find the sanity of hope

And what’s left of its humanity-

The meaning of all that lies behind.

I torment the thought,

Come find me-

But the street stretches long

With sorrow’s empty halls.

Halls I walk alone.

And I ponder what it is

I am searching for.

I provoke the un-provokable-

A force unmet by my hungry eyes.

Give me something to rally off of,

As I wander the streets at night.

They rest inside warm tucked away,

With nothing but another day

They tended.

And I, the one who has unmet agendas

Blames the duties of my day,

Again to others who have their own


I, the one who’s floating,

Much to give

But has been un-attended.


Photograph from: medium.com; by: Hannah Brookes Olsen.

Brown Berry Girl

“Beautiful brown berry girl.

She’s so beautiful.”

As I awoke each morn,

An expectation of excellence.

I dance, I eat and I grow plump.

Don’t tell me my beauty fades,

I never thought so.

Magic in my core

A yearning for a rift in the world

A difference to be made.

My confidence was built.

Smug and aware,

But with rich talent seeping through my

Screaming gut.

I am more-

Than the cheeks that were pinched,

The “round mound of sound,”

Though I much enjoyed hearing those words.

‘Twas the day grandma lie in the

Hospital bed,

Kidneys failing,

I stood, growing in width and height,

The one person that changed my life

Told me I’m not the most

Beautiful thing she had seen.

“You’re beautiful, but not the most.”

You saved me from a delusional fate.

You gave me peace

Showed me a shocking truth

And put me in tears.

That’s all I ever wanted.


It’s like we are back in the hot tub under the cold black sky, clouds that hover atop our exploding heads. Cold trickles of rain float down kissing our exposed skin. Crisp winter air like a new babe drifting into this new season, never stops growing. Energies wildly suckling at our grins in this inevitable flow, we shed, we become new, alive and full, endless cultivating love we share. I lay now, warm in my bed, secure and at home, and it reminds me of how the water wrapped us up like this blanket here, defying the cold that entraps this night air, inviting us three, in the water floating like fetuses in the womb. Pure, new and evolving. Friends, for now or forever, moments that are infinite.

Image by: Jessica Sharmin for Stocksy Inited