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[dried-inkwells]

Lily

The war was like a wall of fire, destruction swept over the lands, ash coated the trees of the forest. Bodies were charred bones and mutilated flesh. The stench was pandemonium, inviting the flies.

***

Mist hangs off the ground, roots grow intertwined with the earth. Birds call out to the fresh air as flute is played like floating asters. The canopy forms a forest cage, the dew adorns it like decorations. The cold stings pleasantly.

Braids of hair sway, with the slow walking of worn boots. They swish around as the boots turn, pendants clinking together. Rings feel like frosted circles on scarred fingers, which rests upon the hilt of the sword, looking powerful yet tired.

The boots stop near the rim of a pond, where a lily, white as the clouds is plucked from a destined bunch of green. The hand dressed with cold rings places the beauty, in the serene waters of the pond. The flute now plays a mournful melody, for she with braids misses her warrior.

***

Grass had yet to grow, to mask the bloodied lands. Poppies were yet to bloom from the blood, lulling the dead to sleep.

She with braids was called fierce in the war. She was fierce enough to escape Death's inviting hands. Fierce enough to draw breath to live. No, not enough to save her love, not enough to save her Lily.

[dried-inkwells]

The colossal masterpiece that is lemon tea

Tea is first, leaves. Then those leaves are dried, and fermented and roasted and blended with other kinds of tea leaves.The leaves get put into water, infusing it with the flavour of its labours,hardships and soul. Tea is all flavour, sophistication, smoothness and scent. It's like relaxing your eyes, and settling more comfortably in your blankets. At times, its richness weighs you down. So you bring in the lemon. Lemon, bright, energetic, raw and tart. It's the essence of summer and is like widening your eyes. It is a burst of freshness.

When the two combine, tea and lime, the bright cold freshness of the lemon is dulled by the intoxicating richness of the tea. It forms a masterpiece of a beverage. The tea, is all warm and cozy and then the lemon, sets your taste buds alight. Lemon tea is contradictory yet complementary, bold yet light, smothering yet lively. It's a divine mixture of tastes and feelings.

Lemon tea is art.

[dried-inkwells]

escape

The sigh of the leaved trees, the floating mist, and a scent of green, The empty valleys, the lonesome peaks and the still lakes. Raging rivers, of water, water and nothing else. The burning of a single bonfire, in the vastness of the world.

Walls of flame devour plains and flushed trees, they burn silently as nothing is there to flee. Silent forests and void like plains, empty skies and oceans of nothingness. No twittering birds, no warbling whales, no barking dogs, no hissing snakes. Silence.

Silence except for your steady breaths and your firm heart beats, Silence except for the rustle of your cloak on the dry cold stone, upon which you sit, alone. Silence except for wind in your ears soft enough to be ignored, as it blows unchallenged through the barren land.

Silence, except for the trickling water in a nearby stream. Silence except for your heavy boots trudging through rubble and stone. Silence except for the floating clouds and colourful skies.

Silence except for your own laugh, gasp, and humming voice. Silence except your thoughts and memories, Silence, except for you.

- crytea

[dried-inkwells]

the cold

Sometimes it is something you ache for, and sometimes it's something you despise.

Like a frigid marble floor cooling the soles of your feet. Like wind before the rain on a dry sunny day, telling you that relief will come. It's the rain itself, its drops cold and quenching soothing your warm skin. It is like flowing streams of chilled water, blooming your fingertips red and numbing your feet. It's a gulp of ice and water after a long day’s work spreading its cooling calmness throughout your body.

Sometimes its, A frigid block of ice hurting your bare feet as you trudge along to find warmth. The harsh blowing winds, the embodiment of a shadowing veil engulfing you in its cold ways, filling you with despair. Sharp icicles of rain and hail stinging your skin as you hope and plead for shelter, for warmth, for comfort. The shock through your nerves when your head is dipped in an icy bath, waking you up and electrifying your senses. You feel your eyes widen and ears pop as you gasp for air.

Cold is cold, and it's quite beautiful.

- crytea

[dried-inkwells]

a simple night

A fire lit stove spreads an orange glow throughout the room. Embers dance around the burning firewood like fireflies. A cast iron pot, all crude and rough, sits on the stove. The stew like contents within it, boils happily, the spices, vegetables and meat simmering in the heat.

The faint splash and sizzle of water is heard a few paces away, as hot stones are dropped into a plain wooden tub of cold water.The water bubbles and becomes warm, snatching the heat from the burning stones.Steam rises up from the hot water into the frigid air making the surroundings misty. Drops of eucalyptus oil are added, which sinks into the water, enriching it with many things unknown to us.

A dusty, corked bottle of mead sits patiently in the cellar. A sealed envelope stays trapped on the table, held there by a simple porcelain vase. It flutters weakly as the wind from the half open window blows into the room.

Shuffling is heard near the tub of water, as dirt encrusted boots are shucked off, soiled clothes are thrown aside and the clink of a chain is heard as if it was kept on the cold, wet, stone floor.The water gurgles and splashes a bit more and a contented sigh wafts up in the air like the steam. The water sloshes about and now a faint humming is heard, of a raw yet melodious voice. The humming is of ancient songs, telling us about the sun, moon and the stars. 

 *  *  *

The bottle of mead sits cleaned and uncorked on the rickety wooden table.A glass of it held in work worn hands. The seal of the envelope is broken and the letter is spread flat on the table.No wind threatens to push it off, the half open window now being closed. The cast iron pot is kept on a block of wood. A plate of its delicious contents is on the table, half empty. The fire - lit stove the pot was on, now resembles a pile of red hot coals.

The sky looks like swirls of violet ink and glum clouds.The stars are nowhere to be seen while the moon shines hazily through the clouds.The wind is cold enough to sting, but damp enough to form dew. Owls hoot and crickets chirp. The air smells of cinders and wetness.

It is a simple night.

 - crytea

[dried-inkwells]

the jive

when you first hear it, in a song or a melody, it brings in curiosity, it brings joy. It lets you feel free and excited it invites you in. it says, you've found me, now you'll feel better. you listen to that over and over, its like sunlight on your face, sprinkling you at first, and then dousing you in its warmth. its that feeling when you smile, and everything feels lighter. when you get that first waft of coffee, when you walk into a toasty bakery. sometimes it gets too much. too much of that warmth, too much of that smile. so you move on. years later you find it again. again. it brings back everything, and it doesn't feel too much anymore. it's now a comfort. you smile and sway to it, sway to that jive.

 - crytea

[dried-inkwells]

a princess of nature

I.

Fresh new corsets, flowing silks,

Vibrants hues and the feel of royalty.

Ornate fountains of dancing nymphs,

Adorned with jewels and lined with gold.

Manicured gardens and clear blue skies,

A faint breeze which rustles the leaves.

The fountain’s continuous flow and trickle,

The falling water creating controlled ripples.

White washed tables and milky teas,

Fine crafted crumpets and assorted cheese.

Polite manners, 

chin up and smile.

Pin back that stray hair,

Don't soil your petite shoes, 

Don't leave mud on the gilded tiles.

Too controlled, Too pretty,

Too neat but she was witty.

II.

Bundles of cheap linen,

And cords of weathered leather,

A jute sack filled with the bare essentials.

Soiled heavy boots, in it concealed a dagger,

tread down the cobblestone alleys,

of the lower town.

Out of the gates she gallops,

With her most trusted horse,

Out and beyond.

III.

Linen dresses held together,

With belts of old leather,

White, simple and raw,

A princess of nature.

Flowing streams of rocky banks, 

Adorned with translucent lilies,

And broad-leaved grass.

Sloshing water and miniature rapids,

Natural and serene, wild and free.

The blue-red hues of dusk, 

paint the clear skies.

A cave of dark stone,

Concealed in vines,

Of yet to bloom moonflowers.

A domestic fire of dry wood,

A pot of boiling tea,

Clear with ginger, lemongrass and honey.

Long, wet hair drying in the chill breeze,

Black as night and wavy as the sea.

The smell of jasmine wafts in the evening air,

A sigh of relief, the crunch of a pear.

Simple, wild, regal and free,

She is glad that she is witty.

   - crytea

[dried-inkwells]

hi!!

I’m crytea, a curious person wanting to try my hand at poetry and writing.

Feel free to say anything you’d like about my writing.I’d love to hear feedback, advice, anything really, so that i can improve and write better for you.Prompts and suggestions would be lovely to receive too!