into battle

The mask they wear, soldiers of yesterday
shimmers at dawn to fight for golden leaves
tomorrow’s game is re-arranged today
the spell he casts— the dark magician weaves.
Wearing their crimson clothes for much too long
pretentious smile behind a masquerade
precious crowns that can never do no wrong
bleeding wound ignored by the sword’s sharp blade.
This battle is just for the courageous
willing to sell their weary heart and soul
bravery and fear, they’re both contagious
wrong move sends them tumbling into the hole.
Maybe one day they’ll wake and look around
to see they’re lost and will never be found.


A Sonnet for #WhisperingNeds 110, ‘play the game’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved


sorry (not sorry)

This morning, slumber held me hostage
gray clouds outside my window
watched me curl into last night’s embrace.

Drifting in and out of consciousness
I found you in my dream
ocean of light in your eyes.

The sun was not happy that I missed out
on his golden colors
I told him I’ve fallen for the shadows
of the moon.


© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

a note to my nemesis

This fear you forced me to face — it keeps me on my toes. Its power diminishes each time I take a step forward.

These images you told me they drew? Theirs. Not mine, never were, never will be. I am painting my own, with my brush, with my choice of colors.

And the nakedness you put me through: it taught me to appreciate the masterpiece that I am, in its purest form, before views and perception smeared its beauty.


© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

a place called home

Did you hear about a place
where words are abound
and souls continue falling
through the seasons?

Its walls are adorned
with everlasting tapestry
passion interwoven
with need and craving.

Its windows, a mosaic
captured kaleidoscope
created for pairs of tired eyes
seeking shelter.

Footprints on warm floors
far from pristine
crumbs scattered
remnants of long nights.

Fading letters on the ceiling
yelling I love you’s
only seen by those
lying still on their back.

And the whistle of the wind
through the window jamb
whispering— welcome


Capturing a stream of consciousness, or some sort.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

attempted theft

I tried stealing light from the moon
weary of listening to her gush
about her dalliance with you.

Away from sunbeam for too long
I see it reflected on
skyscrapers’ windows–
even the colors are unreal.

The night’s still my best friend
patiently crawling, keeping me company
though when dawn breaks I’ll loathe him
for leaving.


© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

unfinished sentences

There is nothing to say, but the words are inching toward the tip of the tongue, waiting for the right moment to make the jump. Some will make it and land on a page, some will miss and become scattered thoughts, while others vaporize into thin air like the fog meeting the sun.


© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

a spotted wren

A spotted wren
pitter-pattering on a skinny branch swaying, swinging
its beak pointed to the sky knowing the mist is nigh

soon the moon claims the night as white as snow
that may or may not fall.

Creatures rustling up for hibernation
move away from noise with poise
never fearing frost, spent months waiting
retreating for they know

when to let nature
take over.



For #WhisperingNeds 109, ‘mist, bands, monsters, heroes, hoarfrost’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

halfway through the play

The leaves do not turn
and they pretend all is well. Or

maybe it is, I don’t know.

Some twigs are dying
from being in the sun for too long.
It is how it is, they say.
I’ve always taken it for granted
until a leaf touched me as it fell,
telling me I might have missed
a lot of things
and I will miss a lot more.

Unless I write my own story.

Colors belong to leaves and bushes
so while they’re clinking their wine glasses
in the intermission, I’ll find a place
adorned with crimson and tangerine.


© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved