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Kaitlin Thompson 2014

Bonfire of the Worlds

My Little Blue Boat

Stolen Places

Crow's Nest

Red was the first colour to graze the paper-back words. Then white; then yellow. On, the incandescent blaze roared. Galaxies collapsed in on each other, towns terrorized with these flames they screamed into the sparks and little inked figures burnt out like broken film. The lost stories slammed their covers.


Another book was tossed on to the fire. 

A murder of shadows

Against blue and white sky

Swirling and twisted

My thoughts drift on by:


Yellow raincoat

Against the storm

In the rain

Teardrops form


A towering beast

Wings meters high

Takes flight into the autumn night

He flaps his wings, and up he flies

Staring at me with those

Red beady eyes.


The clouds are pure

The sky is clear

A murder of shadows

Somewhere near.

Set adrift by a northerly wind, my little boat did fly, across the water so deep and so dark and so blue. Its sail sprang outwards, flailing as it was set free. Its oars sat lifelessly, with no little man to ply them back and forward.  My boat, with little oars and little sail proudly floated away. I turned to the crowd behind my shoulder with a grin and a joyous bounce, “I told you so! I knew I could!” my victory was so loud, and cheers and grunts echoed from the bunch as snacks, placed as bets were passed around. But when I turned back, oh dear, oh dear! My little blue boat had sunk. “Oh no, come back!” I shouted aloud. Yet alas, my little blue boat was lost in the duck pond. No doughnuts for me today.


There is another universe within the sea.

With another you and another me.

Another he and another she.

A new world,

That is just the same.


When I looked upon this glistening place,

I was stared at by her face.

I smiled,

She smiled also.

I laughed,

She laughed also.

I waved,

She waved also.


Yet as I reached out to my friend,

She wavered

She rippled

Her reflection came to an end.


My hand grazed only the cold images

Of earth and sky.

As he was taken, the harsh cloth that blinded his vision from all but black, was drawn upwards slightly. The lands he stole, in those small moments of seeing, were a beauty that kept him from that insane darkness that drew across his eyes, and the rough grip at the back of his neck. He stole the images of moonlight reflecting off the ocean, the ripples that the shrapnel created in the seas, and the sunlight as it broke through the winter sky, dazzling and dizzying. A burning sphere that guided him onwards.


I know that tomorrow will come, because I have seen it in the colours that change the sky from blue to black and in the moon that pulls in the stars. Because I have seen the sun rise and rain down from the clouds that fly across midnight. I have seen the rain fall and with it comes a tsunami of rebirth. And the cracked memories of yesterday are gone with this morning, forgotten in the dawn of a fresh tomorrow. Tomorrow will come. All you have to do is just. Wake. Up. 

Night Turned to Tomorrow



So the cities were torn, their barbwire fences marring the air and clinging to the frost. The winds bit deep into our bones. The wire that distances us from our homes tore at our lungs of smoke and hearts that seemed to carry on anyway, out of time and loud, like the strings of a broken musician. And on we marched, lost and far from a land that we knew.





But look, there! Look to the sky, look to the sky, look to the sky! Freedom blinks on the horizon. Black and grey and blue and purple and; gold. Yellow, orange, red: fireworks erupting in rays, piercing through the frozen lands and here… here I hold, gentle in my hand, the green growth of Now.




Our hope, in the clean water and freshly baked grains, in the music of our words, carried on the back of the breeze, floating, soothing us all. Our home, given by the sun, is set into our flowing arms and freely beating hearts. I lay upon the earth our Now. I watch the skies break apart into the most beautiful palace of colors, shining, blooming our Tomorrow.




I need not look back, I know the harsh, and dictating winter of night all lived is now turned to something beautiful.


Tomorrow. Tomorrow is here. 

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