Bio: Vasi Bjeletich is a 17-year-old writer from a small town in Texas. In her free time, she follows artistic pursuits such as painting and photography in addition to writing.
Editor’s note: Vasi is not just playing with language – she is playing with the structure of the words on the page, guiding the reader’s gaze through the paragraphs at the same time as she deftly guides their mind through her poetry. An interesting and exciting style! We love that Vasi took this approach!
a thousand leaps and a thousand miles
and five hundred years from that;
a flare of light
a silent burst,
new life at the drop of a hat.
a sparkling shine and a colorful floor
and a nursery filled with dust;
a flickering star
a burning heat,
i watch with upwards wanderlust.
the flash of a lens marks its reflection
of the the celestial shine above;
a black telescope
in the blacker night,
as i keep watch on the sky i love.
she’s a whirl of fragmented colours,
her green sweeps me up,
wrapping me in so many hues,
all individual similarities
and i know them from her eyes.
her rose steals my breath,
enveloping and distracting,
each round shade swirling,
puzzling into the mouth i know so well.
her dark catches me in my fall,
curling around it all,
leaving space for fair skin as it shines,
the waves and lashes resting on pale light.
her red surprises me,
and i stumble at her passion,
the deep glowing red of
her blood and her life
i’m in awe
at the pieces of her
as she so gracefully
cities painted in hues of gold,
made bright by bursts of violet
and blue. a window’s glass shatters
and a cat yowls, a shimmer
of life before the sinister light
overtakes movement with one slow slice.
the rays of countless streetlamps slice
through the air, painting it gold
in sharp strokes of tinted light.
the bright sky sleeps, dark violet,
interspersed with the stars’ sudden shimmer.
a world in which reality shatters.
in the dark, a quiet life shatters
without knowledge, with a singular slice
through an undeserving curtain. a shimmer
of kaleidoscope light falls, staining gold
on a carpet colored otherwise violet,
allowing larcenists in with the light.
his shadow hides, despite the light;
sleekly turns and his stillness shatters.
he moves smooth and silent, makes violet
rugs disappear beneath him. a slice
of cold light illuminates him gold
and his form seems to shimmer.
working his magic in the shimmer
of stars, even when the light
dims, he’s a machine of gold,
made to do this, and shatters
of familiar life in this slice
of the world are turning violet.
the rug used to be violet.
the thief’s gone in a shimmer
the way he came, the slice
in the curtain letting in light
that slowly stretches and shatters
as the morning sky appears, gold.
the city returns to its gold.
in the distance, a window shatters
from shock of a curtain slice.
We walk around and get misled
by shining glass and painted red;
we know this is the beast we fed,
and yet we still tremble at the path ahead.
We watch our pace and carefully tread,
stepping swift and cautious in our stead;
all to avoid the monsters under our own bed.
We walk away from things unsaid
and feel hot regret like an arrowhead,
but we still follow the riverbed,
tracing the well-worn path with a heart of lead.
The road will fork, and this we dread,
round and round our cavernous head,
filled with dust, or spiderweb,
and sometimes with hearth and fresh-baked bread.
We don’t know what’s coming in pages unread,
as down and through this path we thread,
and someone could say it’s all in our head,
but even they fear the monster under their own bed.