What is there for you in the birds, the birds, the birds,
crying down in the north wind in September—acres
of birds spotting the air going south?

Is there something finished? And some new beginning
on the way?

Carl Sandburg, from section “Falltime” in “Redhaw Winds,” Poetry (October 1918)

(Source: apoetreflects)

I was born amidst the purple waterfalls. I was weak, yet not unblessed. Dead to the world, alive for the journey. One night I dreamt a white rose withering. A newborn drowning. A lifetime loneliness. I dreamt all my future, relived my past and witnessed the beauty of the beast.

Tuomas Holopainen in Bless The Child (via demonbondage)

(via demonbondage)

I live my life in growing orbits which move out over this wondrous world, I am circling around God, around ancient towers and i have been circling for a thousand years. And I still don’t know if I am an eagle or a storm or a great song.

—Rainer Maria Rilke (via childrenofthetao)

(via wastedseductions)

All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.

—Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse (via penseesduchoeur)

(Source: girlinlondon, via wastedseductions)

Then the feeling moves on. It does not collapse; it is not whisked away. It simply moves on, like a train that stops at a small country station, stands for a while, and then continues out of sight.

—Michael Cunningham, from The Hours  (via violentwavesofemotion)

(Source: trainwrite, via violentwavesofemotion)

& the words pollinated the dark, there was darkness there,
like the after-hours inside a library

Carolina Ebeid, closing lines to “You Ask Me to Talk About the Interior,” Colorado Review (Summer 2014)

(Source: apoetreflects)

He is slow, and the sea sings to us both, but he returns to me.

—Maggie Stiefvater, from The Scorpio Races (via the-final-sentence)

Listen to me. I am telling you
a true thing. This is the only kingdom.
The kingdom of touching;
the touches of the disappearing, things.

Aracelis Girmay, from “Elegy”, in Kingdom Animalia (via hiddenshores)

(via wastedseductions)