Something bending in me,

smoking through the trees

a will-ó-the-wisp, a happy light.

The world is black yet so swollen

with the hearty shades

(so much colour

my eyes don't want to blink a second time)

with the deer's fright, 

the seeing golden.

Sometimes I can't help but think

of my glow and that of my neighbour's window 

as one.

The way the lack of saturation

makes my heart afraid of God

and speak a saturated tongue still. 

The messy end tables 

spilling with a loving rage

unholy, scattered, 

the essence of life.

The very idea of it.

God playing with me in his fingers

Do you hear that, crow? My heart is finally, 

Somewhat, someglare alight.

It's the clanging of utensils, 

the smile waiting at the bus stop,

the waiting face clad in waves of green clouds,

the way the walls are familiar with your time, 

the blue of the sky resting

as the grey breaks across.

It's growing under my head,

calf, dark, love and your mother's hands.

Shereen Rana is a high school student, having made permanent residence in all forms of art, while trying to shape some herself. Her writing seeks to delve into feelings like loneliness, anxiety, the loss that comes with people while also trying to evoke comfort like that of a home. She spends a lot of her time reading, writing, watching shows, drawing and devouring art in general. Her work (along with other chatter) can mainly be found at @lunaremo on tumblr.