Hold up your hands

Hold up your hands,
Stained with pale fire,
Until hot dreams of
Bright futures grow dim,
Cooling against your sighs,
Softening like your soul,
Trickling through your fingers,
As dried streams of
Hope haunts unfettered children –
These phantoms drawn in
Ash falling like snow.

Prompt: from the kind writers over at the pub, dVerse, “Ash” as part of their Quadrille Night.

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29 thoughts on “Hold up your hands

    1. Thank you for reading my recollections. I enjoy that space, between loss and realization, stretched out beyond all conscious thought. Dying hope and promises lingering in the wind are filled with such sad beauty that I cannot help but respect it.

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    1. As with many of my most clever lines, I stole it. Nabokov, I think.
      Still, I think I made good use of it, as all clever thieves believe.

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    1. You’re very kind. I think hope is limitless in many ways, but that’s simply because they have such a short lifespan. Children grow up – dreams often do not.

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    1. Truly your words are too kind. I’m thankful for it. I was worried things felt too surreal – I often find it hard to manage the balance, but that is why I enjoy the restrictions of the quadrille.

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    1. You’re too kind, friend. I’m so sure I deserve such praise. The imagery was there, so I took it and felt it run through my hands like the softest sand.

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