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Alexia-Cristina Mocan, 21 years old, is participating in the 6th International Literary Creation Competition, from Bucharest, Romania. We are grateful for the participation and wish her success.
The Penciller
I pencil the outlines of what I hope will be
Each stroke as fine as a strand of hair
I reach for the brush that will give it life
But the acrylics, they’ve succumbed to drought
How to colour by the numbers now
When all that's left is lead?
I’m a Penciller
The architect
Of paper worlds
That won’t transcend
The House of Mourning
Our house was a house of mourning
The chandelier, the centrepiece to which would gaze up all eyes of sorrow Pleading for the halo of lights to reignite their hollow
Had splintered under the burden of time’s ashes
The walls encapsulating us were barren
An off-white canvas cracking in the humidity of busy racks of laundry
Shadow sailors steering the ship through storm and tide across it
Would’ve admitted defeat in the oblivion of the rift
The stairs towards higher grounds seemed endless
With no landing in-between to catch the tumbling and revive the breathless Spiralling the climber out of his senses
Our house is the house of mourning
The chandelier, whose fragments still lurk in the creeks of the timber
Has grazed its name into the tips of our fingers
Who You Want Me To Be
Carve me in the likeness of your self-proclaimed Highness
To finesse the blemishes that tarnish my reflection
And tell me, will I then be worthy of your attention?
Teach me to strum the cords long-rusted over time
To serenade the brave out on the sea after me to pine
And tell me, will I then be worthy of your wine?
Plant me by the road paved towards one destination
To let the sun nourish me into sprouting in said direction
And tell me, will I then be worthy of your affection?
Strip me of my stripes
Paint me black
Or paint me white
I’m but a simple horse
The reins are yours