My dear friend Antoinette Campbell of Firefly Productions does not fancy herself a writer or even a creative person. However, in a moment of passion she crafted the piece below. Enjoy and comment:


There is a space
that tumbles on time, it breathes in the open and drags in the winter,
ravaged by too much hope
Naught but one prayer answered per day
Limp and worn my spirit sags against a careless wind
This is my shell made flesh and therein I reside
In the empty shallow ever encroaching hole that shudders and ripples at the mere suggestion of feeling

I tire so easily now,
Unable to breathe in that space between the lines, where you so comfortably dart
A dappled deer tossing its body under and about the thickets and tufts in the clearing
While you dance I struggle, choke on the inevitability that is I. The wanting made whole in constant prayer
My energies are leached, my tears drawn leaving a scorched trail against my cheek, nails torn from ‘neath the skin and still I grasp,
Clutching to marred and unhappy desires of an impatient child playing grownup in her mother’s heels and pearls

No need to mock me
I mock myself
I scoff at her silly dreams
The heavy unbalanced gait, lurching from one dashed hope to another
Would that it were hemlock to stain her lips, but the dryad brings naught but salty tears and bitter ointment to tend her wounds
Would that peace could be found, its wisps and tendrils caught between the drops of rain, or happiness one last day in the sun
But the leaves of the forest are too crowded for rain – its natural course to take and sunlight is banished from this early tomb
The only rest this sepulchered cradle; though she lies too scared to journey home

Copyright © Antoinette Campbell 2010