Vasi Bjeletich

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!

 

THE CREATION & THE FALL

 

Genesis For The Stars

 

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.

 

brokenunbroken colour

 

she’s a whirl of fragmented colours,

connecting-and-crashing-and

freezing-and-moving-and-touching

beautifully

 

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

 

colours shift-and-rise-and-fall-and

i’m in awe

at the pieces of her

as she so gracefully

exists.

 

MIDAS

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.

 

Phobic

 

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.

 

 

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