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Unfilled

10/25/2016

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He creeps to me,
in the moonlight,
when the wind
sweeps over the hillside.
With cascading scents
of burnt melon and
crackling leaves,
he creeps to me
on bruised tendencies.
He echoes hushed 
feathery whispers,
on lips of dripping 
love.
Yet, it is not enough.

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Premonition

10/13/2016

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She sat on the porch,
sun dirt shined down
while she chewed her fingernails
down to their bloody nubs.
Nothin to do or say,
while he packed his bags inside.
 
Deep in the cracked house,
his swirled and broken thoughts
of no-goodness, non-righteousness,
unworthy of love-ness
etched and scratched at
the drab walls of his prison head.
 
Out in the backyard,
little girls blew bubbles
none the wiser of
Momma’s troubles as
they skipped rope
and shot at the moon.
 
In the morn, they’ll ask
“Where’s Dad?”
And she’ll choke back her coffee,
wash the burnt dishes
and fold some laundry,
still wrinkled with memories
of what was supposed to be.

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A Lover's Lace

10/7/2016

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Back in the days of no jackets,
when the light crept over the ridge
and cast spindly shadows
among the willows,
she would wander out to
his eternal, hallowed bed.

Ensconced in sheer floral lace,
she'd lay her beauty to the stone
and let her broken tears
beckon her sleeping husband home.

Like reflective, liquid love letters
that shimmered red in the morning sun,
her bidding was done
when the grave dirt came alive.

But, there was always a price.
Tolls to pay,
when you're a dead man's wife.

The first time she watered his tomb,
in that summer of wasted moon,
she heeded not the old hag's warning.
She went about forlorning 'til
she woke her lover, her darling,
and begged him to dance
beneath the bloody crimson sky.

But, he was not the same,
and only worse the second
and third time around.
Wormy, then bony,
fingers through the ground,
he skinned the beauty from her eyes
and marked her face with his bite.

This was her price.
She was forever shunned,
from her family, her friends.
Back in the days of no jackets
and hot summer sun,
she was left to die alone,
wrapped in her own,
necromancing lace.

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    Author

    Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.

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  • Home
  • Showcase
  • Audrie Bretl Roelf
  • Molly Roland
  • Wicked Stories Showcase
  • What We're Looking For
  • About
  • Wicked Events
  • The Writers' Props!
  • Writer Bios
  • Hear Ye, Hear Ye!
  • Contact
  • Gallery