night’s last thought

As dusk descends,
the world around him prepares
to retreat into the night,
putting peace in his hands
for a few hours.

Nooks and crannies
of this place, corners
with darker shades, he knows
all of them by heart.

Making his round,
he smiles to himself
thinking back to the little hands
hanging around his neck before he left.

Turning the corner he looks
straight into a barrel of a gun
beyond it a pair of eyes, mask black as night~

oddly his last thought is how much
he will miss being at peace
with midnight.


written for #WhisperingNeds 103, ‘nightwatchman’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved


me, me, me

that are ripped apart
and broken:

Moral fabric, compassion,
once perfectly woven
into our DNA
as human beings~

Where are they now?

Perhaps hidden beneath the ambition
to have and become the best,
layers deep
under the accepted me-first

How sad it is
to forget that in the end
all these worldly things
would not matter.


© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

witching hour

strings of letters in a golden bowl
a handful of whimsies, mixed with a little bit
of red from the day’s sunset
a spoonful of thoughts, preferably drawn
from a well behind the dark room
and a secret ingredient tossed in the sauce:
the potion that will keep them
coming back for more


written for #WhisperingNeds 102, ‘recipe’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

she comes here every night

An empty room, save for a chair by the window. A sliver of sunlight touches one of its edges every morning, and at night it lives in the darkest shade of black.

Nobody comes here anymore, except she who always carries a basket full of torn pieces of paper that had been a letter. Every night she sits on the chair, the basket on her lap, putting the pieces together, although she knows the words by heart — a vow for a forever.


© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

changing tune

They told me how much
of the whispers on the breeze
belonged to others

(and why the rhythm
changed halfway).

Some notes were wrapped
in the depths of blues
never seen before.

And so the whistle
passed by a heart
patiently waiting to hear

a new tune.


© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

not just one


a flower thought to be one of a kind
for sky’s tears kissed its petals
but really
the whole garden was showered
with golden raindrops


he’s a soul that loves beauty
not that you’re special
nothing personal


a whole lot of words and not a single touch


© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

just another afternoon

dusk descends
bringing spectra of colors
to silent audience

lonesome soul lingers
at the curb with a guitar
singing the same song
telling the same story
to a different crowd

sky’s curtains soon drawn
shadows concealed yet again


© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

impending accident

I told you we’d crash and burn
but you wouldn’t listen.
Maybe that was what you wanted.

A season of passion,
kisses under a few full moons,
and a note to say sorry
for throwing me off the boat
at full speed.


© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved