I would like to introduce to you, dear reader, a gifted young lady that I’ve followed since I began blogging. Topaz Winters is a young novelist, singer, and song writer whose contributions to the world’s music, literature, and poetry is indicative of an ancient and wise soul. She works tirelessly at her passion for the arts while balancing a busy life. Recently, She dedicated her poem, Midnight Letters, to the writers on Survivors Blog Here and our readers.
Topaz’s message is one that embraces the emotions of the heart and the challenges that come our way in the course of our lives. In her poetry and prose is the voice of love, hope, clarity, and ultimately understanding. Hear her voice and share in her boundless energy by checking out her website at www.topazwinters.com. Topaz also has a book Blog, YA Asylum, and she is the poetry editor over at, The Tea Cup Trail, a literature and art magazine.
Kindness is a gift, often unexpected though deeply desired. It comes to us in those moments when we glance away and find a gift left by a gentle soul. Thank you Topaz!
by Topaz Winters
witching hour. one-lane highway. stale cigarette smoke
curls through my veins. I can hear what the night
is thinking. it’s thinking of me. it’s thinking of the
sound of heartbreak and stars shot down from
inky skies. it’s counting down silent seconds,
wondering when the sun will arrive to burn it away.
the night is afraid. so am I.
but it smells like warmth, like faded leather and
broken guitar strings. it smells like everything I
shouldn’t want and everything I do anyway. the
world is asleep, but out here, the emptiness
breathing deep inside my bones is replaced by
something else. magic. or maybe something more,
something untouched by human hands. the
night yawns high above me, and I think perhaps
it is friends with this thing that breathes
deep deep down where no one else goes.
not a soul in this world knows how to love me,
but birds are singing in my throat. I think I know
what freedom is: empty road, star song, love and
fear and everything in between. I’ve tried time and
time again to dig my own grave, but something
always snatches the shovel from my hands before
I can finish. my heart is ensnared in an animal trap.
but my mind is wild. my eyes are dancing. it’s the
witching hour and there are monsters lurking in
dark shadows. I am one of them.
the night is bruised, stars like blood leaking across its
sleek silken surface. I am bruised too. I am broken.
shades of grey and black blur into each other, but here,
teetering on the brink between dusk and day, is the only
place I can see in perfect colour.
there is a thing breathing deep inside my bones:
magic, or perhaps stardust. infinity hums in every
inch of my skin, and the night is calling my name.
I think perhaps it’s time to go and meet it.