Romans & histoires Poem From The Outsiders...nothing Gold Can Stay

Later she would think it was both at once — the kind of thing that has no initiator because both people arrived at it from the same direction at the same moment, which was the truest thing about them, which had been the truest thing about them from the beginning: they kept arriving at things at the same time, from different routes, to find each other already there. The workshop was cold and smelled of sawdust and the chair stood in the morning light and outside the bright November day went on — the blue sky, the serious cold, the silver maples dropping the last of what they had to drop — and Eleanor Ashford stood in a workshop behind a gas station in a town she’d found by running out of gas

No one mentioned the way those eyes seemed to count them. They didn’t speak about the thing they all felt move deeper in the dark. Not yet. Their attention pinched to gold. To the gun. To the hour where want looks most like purpose. Something in the deep shifted its weight. They made camp in the hoard’s navel. Torches died one by one until a single oil lantern made a small republic of light. Gold held the glow and gave none back.

Theodore was golden to me. But nothing gold can stay.

"Where are you going? We're departing tomorrow. How are we supposed to leave when you haven't packed up for us?" "Do you have no hands, or are you just useless? Even a three-year-old would know to take care of their own business—don't you understand it?" I replied. Mom choked. By the time she wanted to reply, I had already put on my shoes and walked out of the house. Since they liked Madeline so much, I'll let her have the role of the daughter of the Lewis family. They could deceive my emotions, but not my money. I would be a fool to let them take my money to support someone else.

**“The storm howls across the sleeping village, wind clawing at fragile wooden doors. Yet inside, a single lamp glows warmly, a quiet home untouched by the rage outside. The kettle hums gently upon the stove, and laughter lingers like a fading song. Who would step into the storm, when the hearth burns bright and kind? Who would leave the comfort of home, to wander beneath a sky filled with thunder? But beyond the hills, the banners of our country tremble in the wind. The land that raised us, the soil beneath our childhood steps, the rivers that carried our dreams— They call to us. Even when the storm roars, even when fear grips the heart, someone must step beyond the warm doorway. Someone mu

“I still have to find a way out of this place.” The words felt heavier than before. Because now… Escape felt harder. How do you run from a cage made of gold? How do you leave when everything around you tries to make you forget you’re trapped? I pressed my forehead against the glass. “I won’t forget,” I whispered to my belly. “I promise.” Because no matter how beautiful this prison was… It was still a prisoner. And I was still planning my escape.

My fingers find their own way. It’s not the lullaby. It’s not the new song. It’s something in between—same bones, different skin. Minor instead of major. A little crooked at the edges, like a mirror warped in the middle. Words crowd my throat. *You dressed it up in gold leaf / called it shelter, called it home / but I can feel the steel beneath / every key and every stone…* I hum them under my breath, just enough to taste them. “You always write this fast?” a low voice says through the glass.

Daphne took the time to glance at the enjoyable expression on her face, and asked: "Are you still going thinking about your sister..." .... .... .... Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. She walks in beauty, like the night

Harmony I was trying to prevent myself from shaking while I was staring at my laptop. I don’t know what to feel about a post on Friendbook related to me. While I was trying to calm down, I continued to stare at a photo posted with a mocking caption. It was me, standing on a stage while in the midst of holding back my tears. The caption says, "Wow, look at your dumb rich girl stuttering through a debate. Is that all you can do? "

I give up my vision which is ultraviolet at a research conference while poetry as morning rain blooms on the glass of storefronts. I give up my song which is going to prepare me to disappear for another six months. I give up my fingers which climb like vines to touch the skin in which I shall never be found.