kdecember:

Now that her eyes dance

like they always used to dance

and her soul is illuminated again 

by the words that so carelessly pass your lips

the distance to the Anchorage in her heart

he’d been building from the moment they met

doesn’t seem to be as microscopic

as  you made it out to be

So don’t withdraw your hands from her grasp

for she now nestles in the depths of your soul

relying on the shelter you provide

S.C

sc-briest:

Sometimes, when I look outside my window, I don’t see the old walnut tree with its pallid leaves and enfeebled bark, that’s been guarding the grounds for nearly a century now.
I see my grandfather, patting the soil around the shoot, providing care like a proud parent would do. I hear the pitter patter of my mothers chubby toddler feet as they dance around the still growing tree, feeding it with dreams and fairytales no future can provide.
Years go by, the daughter no longer just daughter but mother and the father no longer a father but grandfather. A lot had changed. A mild autumn afternoon soaked a boy with heavy light of an idle sun, while he dreamed of castles and fortresses floating in the branches of the heavy grown. he dreamed of touching skies and stroking clouds, as he lay under the tree and watched its leaves dance.
It didn’t take long for my little brother and I to follow our brothers steps to the garden, the centre of our home. What was just a plant had turned into a giant so tall I`d thought it could tickle the clouds with its towering arms. Our childhood took place in that garden, guarded by the roof of the tree my grandfather had planted all these decades ago.
All my memories are painted by the replete green of its leaves and the bold colors autumn would bring, creating dreams so real and bright. Its leaves whisper tales of long forgotten generations who provided the foundation beneath my bare feet, my toes digging into the soil my Grandfather tilled, looking for the dreams he lost on his journey of fulfilment.
Two years ago, my grandfather got sick. The week he was admitted, my elder brother hinted at bald spots of the tree for the first time. It only took those two years for the tree to lose nearly all his leaves and to stop carrying nuts as he had all these years long.
Now, when I look outside my window, it’s not an old walnut tree with pallid leaves I see.
It’s my grandfathers kind smile as he peaks through the leafless bones of an once royal giant,taking with him what he created, making peace at last.
S.C

sc-briest:

Sometimes, when I look outside my window, I don’t see the old walnut tree with its pallid leaves and enfeebled bark, that’s been guarding the grounds for nearly a century now.

I see my grandfather, patting the soil around the shoot, providing care like a proud parent would do. I hear the pitter patter of my mothers chubby toddler feet as they dance around the still growing tree, feeding it with dreams and fairytales no future can provide.

Years go by, the daughter no longer just daughter but mother and the father no longer a father but grandfather. A lot had changed. A mild autumn afternoon soaked a boy with heavy light of an idle sun, while he dreamed of castles and fortresses floating in the branches of the heavy grown. he dreamed of touching skies and stroking clouds, as he lay under the tree and watched its leaves dance.

It didn’t take long for my little brother and I to follow our brothers steps to the garden, the centre of our home. What was just a plant had turned into a giant so tall I`d thought it could tickle the clouds with its towering arms. Our childhood took place in that garden, guarded by the roof of the tree my grandfather had planted all these decades ago.

All my memories are painted by the replete green of its leaves and the bold colors autumn would bring, creating dreams so real and bright. Its leaves whisper tales of long forgotten generations who provided the foundation beneath my bare feet, my toes digging into the soil my Grandfather tilled, looking for the dreams he lost on his journey of fulfilment.

Two years ago, my grandfather got sick. The week he was admitted, my elder brother hinted at bald spots of the tree for the first time. It only took those two years for the tree to lose nearly all his leaves and to stop carrying nuts as he had all these years long.

Now, when I look outside my window, it’s not an old walnut tree with pallid leaves I see.


It’s my grandfathers kind smile as he peaks through the leafless bones of an once royal giant,taking with him what he created, making peace at last.

S.C

Internal

sc-briest:

Conscience is a funny thing. 

Never seen, but always attending.

Not invariably pristine, while led by the heart.

Always selfish, though unknowingly.

Two sides.

 Always at war, never  to surrender. 

Two sides. 

One smarter than the other, constantly bickering.

Two sides. 

Aiming for perfection, never succeeding.

Two sides.

Creating and destroying, simultaneously.

For that’s what conscience is.

(A battlefield; littered with corpses, executed by the wiser.)

A funny thing to see. 

-S.C.

Sometimes, when I look outside my window, I don’t see the old walnut tree with its pallid leaves and enfeebled bark, that’s been guarding the grounds for nearly a century now.
I see my grandfather, patting the soil around the shoot, providing care like a proud parent would do. I hear the pitter patter of my mothers chubby toddler feet as they dance around the still growing tree, feeding it with dreams and fairytales no future can provide.
Years go by, the daughter no longer just daughter but mother and the father no longer a father but grandfather. A lot had changed. A mild autumn afternoon soaked a boy with heavy light of an idle sun, while he dreamed of castles and fortresses floating in the branches of the heavy grown. he dreamed of touching skies and stroking clouds, as he lay under the tree and watched its leaves dance.
It didn’t take long for my little brother and I to follow our brothers steps to the garden, the centre of our home. What was just a plant had turned into a giant so tall I`d thought it could tickle the clouds with its towering arms. Our childhood took place in that garden, guarded by the roof of the tree my grandfather had planted all these decades ago.
All my memories are painted by the replete green of its leaves and the bold colors autumn would bring, creating dreams so real and bright. Its leaves whisper tales of long forgotten generations who provided the foundation beneath my bare feet, my toes digging into the soil my Grandfather tilled, looking for the dreams he lost on his journey of fulfilment.
Two years ago, my grandfather got sick. The week he was admitted, my elder brother hinted at bald spots of the tree for the first time. It only took those two years for the tree to lose nearly all his leaves and to stop carrying nuts as he had all these years long.
Now, when I look outside my window, it’s not an old walnut tree with pallid leaves I see.
It’s my grandfathers kind smile as he peaks through the leafless bones of an once royal giant,taking with him what he created, making peace at last.
S.C

Sometimes, when I look outside my window, I don’t see the old walnut tree with its pallid leaves and enfeebled bark, that’s been guarding the grounds for nearly a century now.

I see my grandfather, patting the soil around the shoot, providing care like a proud parent would do. I hear the pitter patter of my mothers chubby toddler feet as they dance around the still growing tree, feeding it with dreams and fairytales no future can provide.

Years go by, the daughter no longer just daughter but mother and the father no longer a father but grandfather. A lot had changed. A mild autumn afternoon soaked a boy with heavy light of an idle sun, while he dreamed of castles and fortresses floating in the branches of the heavy grown. he dreamed of touching skies and stroking clouds, as he lay under the tree and watched its leaves dance.

It didn’t take long for my little brother and I to follow our brothers steps to the garden, the centre of our home. What was just a plant had turned into a giant so tall I`d thought it could tickle the clouds with its towering arms. Our childhood took place in that garden, guarded by the roof of the tree my grandfather had planted all these decades ago.

All my memories are painted by the replete green of its leaves and the bold colors autumn would bring, creating dreams so real and bright. Its leaves whisper tales of long forgotten generations who provided the foundation beneath my bare feet, my toes digging into the soil my Grandfather tilled, looking for the dreams he lost on his journey of fulfilment.

Two years ago, my grandfather got sick. The week he was admitted, my elder brother hinted at bald spots of the tree for the first time. It only took those two years for the tree to lose nearly all his leaves and to stop carrying nuts as he had all these years long.

Now, when I look outside my window, it’s not an old walnut tree with pallid leaves I see.


It’s my grandfathers kind smile as he peaks through the leafless bones of an once royal giant,taking with him what he created, making peace at last.

S.C