16 Forever

I dream of a castle

where I never grow old.

I am 16 forever,

forever alone.

I stand on the parapets

and stare at the clouds

and life means less everyday,

when I’m 16 forever

and all I do is stay.

And all that I once loved

turns musty and stale.

What’s the point in forever

if forever is pale?

I suppose life would be lifeless

without mortal constraints

but I’d love to be timeless –

at least for a day.

A little piece I wrote a while ago. One of my favorites I’ve written, to be honest. xx inkgirl

Copyright 2022 Leona Petrovic

Humans can’t let go

Opposite, like dark and light.
We always run from death,
we always cling to life.
It’s the human thing to do,
we can’t seem to let go.
Searching for eternity, infinity,
we wish that we were gods.
Masters of the skies and seas.
But the only sea is in our veins,
pooling by our trembling feet,
as we realize that death has come,
as we wail and whisper please.

the last unicorn

He remembers the day.
The day they ran out to play.
To run through the trees.
To dance with the breeze.

He remember those times.
The happiness they felt.
But that was ’till she fell down.
And her blood lay crimson on the snowy ground.

Now he’s all alone.
And he doesn’t know.
That he’s the last unicorn.

He cries to the moon.
He cries to the stars.
He cries to her skeleton.
But they’re all way too far
(to heed his cries.)

He doesn’t dance anymore,
he doesn’t prance anymore,
he doesn’t love anymore,
as there is no one left to love.

He seeks through the woods.
The dark branches reach.
But the scratches can’t compare
to the memory of her fear.

As she lay down and died.
He lay down and cried.
And something far away yelled, curtained by snow,
“Damn, I missed the deer, come on let’s go!”

But he didn’t understand.
And all he knew.
Was that she was gone and he was alone,
but not just in the woods, in the whole world.

He’s been seeking for centuries,
he’s been seeking for years.
He’s been crying to the moon,
he’s been raining those tears.

Now he’s all alone.
And he doesn’t know.
That he’s the last unicorn.

Her skeleton, with sun-bleached bones,
still sits in the meadow that used to be his home.
The place still remains where the blood gushed down,
and watered the snow on the dead, dead ground.

His aloneness has made his soul
an empty pit, no more gold.
Rusty heart, only beating blood,
empty for there is no one to love.

The scars on his legs,
the scars on his heart,
the scars in his soul,
the scars on the moon and the stars.

Because no one answers
(the moon is too far)
all this silence is tearing him apart.
And the silver in life is gone,
for he’s all alone.

Now he’s all alone.
And I think he knows.
That he’s the last unicorn.