I write poetry and fiction on the edge of the map when I'm not working in the forest.
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The gentle breeze turns sharp and chill, the last leaves fall like russet tears. Autumn leans into winter, Imperceptibly.
By Imola Tóth3 months ago in Poets
What can I say to you, oh luminescent marble, that hasn't been said before? . Since the dawn of time, people has sworn their love for you—
By the age of thirteen, Rose Favereau had learned a great many things from her cousin, Louise — all by peeping through a keyhole.
By Imola Tóth3 months ago in Fiction
Hunting for the success and fame, for the appreciation of the poet hiding in me, somewhere. . Every time I get close—so close—
Every time you go away you take something with you— from me, and in its absence poetry is born, and it fills the void
howling echoes light goes out, the dark thickens cold breath on my neck “Tenebrous” —meaning dark, shadowy, obscure. From the Latin tenebrae, meaning “deep shadow”,
By Imola Tóth4 months ago in Poets
Journal '89 Entry #174 It happened again today— one of those strange dreams that make me feel as if I’d been ripped out of my timeline and woken in another.
By Imola Tóth4 months ago in Fiction
I always wanted to be the light to guide someone's genius — to shine so bright that I would spark ideas that can't come to life without me.
Certain mornings the Sun hits the bathroom just right and I can look myself in the eye without having to think anything, but how the light shines through my iris,
We found her where the moss had made its bed, bones shimmering, bared by the autumn rain; wild flowers twined about her ribs and head,
It was getting darker, rain started its pitter-patter against my windshield when I decided to pull over to a narrow road that led into the forest. The next village was 25 kilometers away, and I was too exhausted to keep driving.
They once gleamed with velvet in the sun, indigo skin aglow with carmine flame; the air was drunk as sweetness just begun,
