{"id":3025,"date":"2016-12-09T00:56:10","date_gmt":"2016-12-09T00:56:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/?p=3025"},"modified":"2017-03-25T04:02:38","modified_gmt":"2017-03-25T04:02:38","slug":"nocturnal-rumination-by-lydia-wright","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/nocturnal-rumination-by-lydia-wright\/","title":{"rendered":"Nocturnal Rumination by Lydia Wright"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/h1>\n

Nocturnal Rumination<\/h2>\n

by Lydia Wright<\/p>\n

i have never been a proper lady. my feet are too big
\nand my hands
\nare too calloused. i freely admit i am guilty
\nof my sins,
\nlost like a seagull who circles the bay
\nin winter
\nwhen nobody’s
\nthere.<\/p>\n

i am a perpetual winter evening
\nwhen the farmhouse lights extinguish
\none by one,
\nan apparition ambling down
\na lesser traveled highway
\ntoward the broken-down buildings, the end
\nof the world.<\/p>\n

i’m prone to wander. my prayers
\ndo not float.
\ni’m a thousand year old city
\nlost
\nbeneath the sea. my eyelids are heavy,
\nand sometimes i cry.
\ni have good intentions, my hands
\njust shake.<\/p>\n

sometimes i hear my bones breaking apart, and
\nthe nape of my neck smells like
\nfuneral flowers. i love,
\nbut i kill–
\nmy mind is made up.
\nin a past life i may have been
\na tree.<\/p>\n

the loveliest sadness pursues me at night
\nwhen i hear the wind blow, and i’m
\nwild again– a danger perhaps
\nto myself most of all,
\ndrawn like a moth to the last
\nburning candle
\non earth.<\/p>\n

forgive me if my speech is obscure. i talk
\nabout ghosts in my sleep. i am one death away
\nfrom continuous flight
\nthrough the dark which pervaded the cosmos
\nbefore
\nthere was light.<\/p>\n

###<\/p>\n

Lydia Wright is a serial dreamer, artist, and writer who resides in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Believing first and foremost in the power of the written word, Lydia attributes her passion for poetry to a single grade school poetry lesson which has served as the catalyst to a life she now devotes to translating personal experiences into poems that will resonate with others. On the rare occasion when her head is not in the clouds, Lydia can be found in the woods, haunting the dimly lit corners of various local coffee shops, and generally observing the world around her. Her writing often possesses a dream-like, romantic quality, incorporating visually and emotionally captivating language that aims to pluck the collective heartstrings of humanity. Lydia writes best with a cat on her lap.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Nocturnal Rumination by Lydia Wright i have never been a proper lady. my feet are too big and my hands are too calloused. i freely admit i am guilty of my sins, lost like a seagull who circles the bay in winter when nobody’s there. i am a perpetual winter evening when the farmhouse lights…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3026,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[53],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3025","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poem"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t