Lightnews — Scholar-powered news

lichtbringer

@saintghost.bsky.social

970 followers 790 following 1.5K posts

Anna | 1991 | Germany | gemini ⋆☀︎. | scorpio ⏾⋆.˚ hexerey & hochgebet ꒰ა♱໒꒱ angel at the abattoir // patron saint of moonstruck girls･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ☾ somewhere between psychotic and iconic ౨ৎ all words by me unless stated otherwise ﾟ･* ⋆ ✩ ˚ ｡⋆ ✩

Posts Media Videos Starter Packs

lichtbringer @saintghost.bsky.social · 2h

For #PoemsAbout #ImperfectMe ✨

for @thebrokenspine.co.uk
& @alanparrywriter.co.uk

I apologize for the ungodly length and extend my sincerest gratitude to everyone who still endeavors to read it. Thank you.

$Mirror, Mirror A spell gone wrong. The fairy godmother quit, left the fire for a cigarette break. My dress is as chintzy as lollipop shivers, as cheap as no-fucks-given first love and even that I could never afford. A broom dressed in a rag, owl-grown on eyelash wishes. A wish is something my heart makes when you sing about how the light weeps through the gauze of the leaves when it falls, like a prayer through stained glass, or a girl’s head through the open mouth of her mother’s medicine cabinet. We all know that things are purified by their falling, by how low they can go before they snap. A wish is the insistence to fall like this just a little bit longer, to sweeten the pulp of my ruin once I collapse into smoke. A dream, however, is a different beast: A dream is something tenebrous that lives in the fractures and marrows, that comes for me like a gorge of gray wolves, ubiquitous and bigger than a life, or a couldn’t, or a death. It makes me think about your teeth, how they tear a signature of grief into my wrist, how I mistook a maw for a sparrow’s beak, and blood for godly devotion. You ask what has touched me without leaving a bruise. Nothing. The brittle hair brown as the mud- crested belly of a fox, hunted, tangled in lilac and bramble, keeping watch over what remains of us and what doesn’t when no one is looking too close. Rings of salt around my eyes where at midnight the crows come and pick apart the waning embers until things lose their focus and become mercurial rivulets of maybe and fever. The olanzapine body, fed too sad on gingerbread and delusions; the one that I carry like a coffin or that in turn shoulders me like a cross, because it has to, because it knows no other way. The flesh-simmering hunger to be not only seen but felt. That deaf violent resistance to any threat or touch of disenchantment.$

And there it is,
the seam that is always giving, where the doctor did
his stitches like someone drunk on the moon. Touch it:
It tells a cicatrized story, one that the sortilege of speaking
could not. I am not only an imperfection but a curse, baptized
in a river’s edge that knows neither map nor ending.
Lids and lips dusted with a summoning of need the color
of last year’s rotten apples; as if there was a ballroom I was going to
instead of a padded cell, as if I had lost a shoe of glass
instead of my agency and sense of self.

All this sorcery, just for that one moment.

Because you promised me an elsewhere and another
time, where truth was untrue and real was only a word
that held as much weight as a twig. Where I could go
and be not prophecy but promise; peach, plum, and palms unread
but understood in the unutterable language of fate.
Where I could be held by a world that does not ask of me
to prove it. But you just made me up, didn’t you, divined my name
in some lapse of reason amidst seal-skinned sirens and antlered
hares. Something to rain away the hours, insubstantial and hidden
behind the veil of absurdity. I come alive in your glimpse only,
in that one wisp of splintered impossibility
and just as soon as you close your eyes, all my fake
bones shatter and crumble.

Looking back, I will then be made to wonder
if I have ever been really here at all.
Did I die or did I vanish
or did you just forget to continue to have faith
in my fabled existence, in the frailty of my
mythology?

Because nothing’s more fatal to a dream
than those who do not believe in it.

1 1 9

Reposted by lichtbringer

Coffin Boffin @coffinboffin.bsky.social · 17d

#AUTUMN BEAUTY I was struck by the unsettlingly dark beauty of the #Bronte family home & churchyard when I visited Haworth. Shrouded in mist among the #autumn leaves it was clear no coward soul could live here. Glorious in its gothic gloom.

2 22 87

lichtbringer @saintghost.bsky.social · 2h

misty garden light
the rabbits are wearing
raincoats of dead leaves

#haiku
#DailyHaikuPrompt

3 30

Reposted by lichtbringer

Paul Bassett Davies @thewritertype.bsky.social · 9d

The smell of autumn is in the air, like a pencil being sharpened in a damp church by someone who has recently smoked a pipe.

14 29 150

Reposted by lichtbringer

Kathleen Gresham Everett @everettpoetry.bsky.social · 19h

unraveled
a skein of geese
frays the morning sky

*** written a long time ago...your poem reminded me....😊

1 1 3

lichtbringer @saintghost.bsky.social · 2h

Oh that is just lovely!! Thanks so much for sharing this 🙏🏻❤️🪶✨

1 1

lichtbringer @saintghost.bsky.social · 20h

the secret message
spelled in piles of autumn leaves —
once we have fallen
our colors may be even
brighter than before

#tanka #poetry
#TankaThursday

10 39

Reposted by lichtbringer

Rachel Deering @racheldeering.bsky.social · 4d

🎃 #Gothtober #31daysofhalloween

Vintage Halloween card:
‘A Happy Halloween’
A witch in a white dress with a large pumpkin head on a broomstick, gold stars, full moon, night sky with clouds.

15 91

lichtbringer @saintghost.bsky.social · 20h

skein of geese
woven together by fate
night sky’s silver needle

#haiku
#DailyHaikuPrompt

1 11 58

lichtbringer @saintghost.bsky.social · 20h

🙌🏻🖤👻🫶🏻

lichtbringer @saintghost.bsky.social · 20h

That is very kind of you but nah, I’m definitely not better at it. I often have great trouble expressing myself& completely despair over my writing. But you have the ability to write with the precision of a surgical incision& find just the right words! &I read it and am like, damn, yeah, exactly!😅👏👏

1 1

Reposted by lichtbringer

A. A. Rubin @thesurrealari.bsky.social · 8d

Happy #October, people. I’m welcome n in the best month of the year with some classic #raybradbury #gothic tales.

Black text in white:

OCTOBER COUNTRY
...that country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun.
That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain. ...

6 17

lichtbringer @saintghost.bsky.social · 21h

Thank you 🙏🏻🪶💙✨

Reposted by lichtbringer

🎭 m i k e ✨ @po3try.bsky.social · 21h

in the mirror-room
all things are ghosts
of the real

1 3 8

lichtbringer @saintghost.bsky.social · 21h

Ooooh I love that! 🖤👻☺️✨

lichtbringer @saintghost.bsky.social · 21h

Well, thank YOU! ☺️🙏🏻✨ Very happy to hear that you liked it! ❤️🫶🏻