Free Spirit

Then, he moved as loose grains of sand do at the touch of the gentle breeze—gliding a short distance before stopping and then moving once again. His eyes were a shade of dull, lifeless grey that seemed both to mirror that of the dismal sky and to put it to shame with its own barely concealed gloom.

And yet, watching him with glassed over eyes, arms wrapped around myself in my own personal cage, I saw a free spirit.

Chiara Larkins


A Gentle Pond ~ a poem

Shadows stretch across the surface-

Of a small, unnoticed pond,

Delicate lilies cling to its face-

Masking that which lies beyond;

Not a ripple dares to shatter-

This plane of tinted glass,

Fixed firmly like a scenic picture-

As many, lonely years pass;

Although rare, there comes a time-

Where eyes sharp and perceptive,

Seek out the waiting, forest pond-

With its depths dark and deceptive;

Timid toe gently breaks the face-

The ripples scattering the illusion,

Of calm contentment that truly is-

Naught but a self-conjured delusion;

Bare skin meets the freezing water-

Hopeful smile turns to worried frown,

The pond is deeper than expected-

All who attempt to delve shall drown;

Beware, step not further my way;

Attempt not to unmask my lies.

I am dangerous under my surface;

This gentle pond is my disguise.

04/18/16 Chiara Larkins