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Riley Catherine Magill
Goodreads Author
Born
Toronto, Scarborough, Canada
Genre
Member Since
March 2020
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Headless Wildflower: in the Seasons of Mortal Integrity
by |
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“My minds eye,
an oasis where the final petal is caught in the wildfires,
foregrounding my inner complexities,
a make-up of my day-to-day state of mind
twisting and twirling,
causing a downpour of sentiments;
coiled winds of thought –
a spiraling attempt at illuminating my mind.
A poem can be a dream,
whirling around an idea or,
entirely avoiding it –
my poems behave like dreams
where patterns of thought drift through watery eyes,
drawing on the unconscious
in hazel cindered minds eye.”
―
an oasis where the final petal is caught in the wildfires,
foregrounding my inner complexities,
a make-up of my day-to-day state of mind
twisting and twirling,
causing a downpour of sentiments;
coiled winds of thought –
a spiraling attempt at illuminating my mind.
A poem can be a dream,
whirling around an idea or,
entirely avoiding it –
my poems behave like dreams
where patterns of thought drift through watery eyes,
drawing on the unconscious
in hazel cindered minds eye.”
―
“My minds eye,
an oasis where the final petal is caught in the wildfires,
foregrounding my inner complexities,
a make-up of my day-to-day state of mind
twisting and twirling,
causing a downpour of sentiments;
coiled winds of thought –
a spiraling attempt at illuminating my mind.
A poem can be a dream,
whirling around an idea or,
entirely avoiding it –
my poems behave like dreams
where patterns of thought drift through watery eyes,
drawing on the unconscious
in hazel cindered minds eye.”
―
an oasis where the final petal is caught in the wildfires,
foregrounding my inner complexities,
a make-up of my day-to-day state of mind
twisting and twirling,
causing a downpour of sentiments;
coiled winds of thought –
a spiraling attempt at illuminating my mind.
A poem can be a dream,
whirling around an idea or,
entirely avoiding it –
my poems behave like dreams
where patterns of thought drift through watery eyes,
drawing on the unconscious
in hazel cindered minds eye.”
―
