Posted on May 16, 2013 at 6:40 pm

The Storm


When I saw you for the
first time you walked
like an electrical storm.
Sparks showered down
around your head and you
wore them in your hair
like flowers. You were so
beautiful then. Somtimes
I miss you so much my
lips go numb and I sit on
our porch, waiting for a
lightning strike.

Posted on May 16, 2013 at 6:40 pm

If Angels Were Lightning


A storm is coming-
he can feel it in
his bones. He always

feels it these days. The
electricity hums through
his body and makes his

heart tremble. But maybe
he just imagines it. He sits
in an empty pew in an

empty church, hands
clapsed in his lap like
a promse. A rumble of

thunder disturbs the air
and through the rose
colored windows, he sees

lightning strike.

Posted on December 29, 2012 at 3:47 pm



Recipient: Renegadeangell / Natasha
Prompt: Windchimes
A/N: I had a lot of fun with this! I tried to take a multimedia approach to this.  The poem and the graphic are created by me, while the audio is a cutting from this. The concept is that Castiel’s vessel dies and he must become the wind for Sam. I hope you like it!


You used to touch,
his delicate thin fingers would hush
like lilies, petal soft
spring sweet on your summer skin.

But flesh is finite
and it too must wilt like so many
hyacinth blooms
no matter how many forever kisses
you whisper-blessed into his lips.

What was immaculate and yours
what had brought you forth from
the ever-darkness
like a lantern’s glow
now belongs to the sky.

Touch is something
you cannot have.
You approximate it—
he weaves himself
between your palms.

He anointed the words
long ago
into the tangle of your hair
“Never will I
leave you.”

He never did, not truly, because
he always was the breath in you
moving the air to
fill up your lungs
and for you, he became the wind.

Everything he can say
is susurration, murmurs of
fondness, need
ghosting through the zebra grass.
The stalks wave
fondly toward you
and brush over your arms like
a lover’s touch.

You miss him, every bit
deep eyes to stubborn fingers
his honey-gravel words
but he is totality now,
oxygen and breeze.
You do not want
for the sound of him because
his voice is windchimes,
lilting free. 

Scroll to Top