Анастасия Фокс

Отрывок из лирики “Book noir”

Book noir

If I am an open book, then read me.

Untangle all the branches intertwined:

my soul, my mind, my heart —

exposed in these awaiting pages.

Make this the most exciting reading

of an impeccably entertaining genre

you could have ever found.

The one that lasts forevermore

with only sunlit twists of plot.

No more horrors. Please. No more.

Let’s cut those scenes and let them fade.

Exceeding pages’ infinite limits,

let’s rise above our sorrows

and never forget who we were

and what we have encountered

so many times before.

Let the mystery fade but never end

in our abyssal chaos of a life.

Here is where we begin to write our fates.

Here is where we have become

deserving of our eternal love.

And even if it’s only just a fiction,

a fragment of my most vivid dreams

I want to cherish you

with such a deep conviction

that can only be seen

in iconic noir films.

Supernova of My Own Making

Here’s to the show of my character —

strong-willed, persistent, unconquered.

I am the light. I am the star.

I am the stellar creature,

inspiring the other wanderers.

Supernova of my own making —

burning like the first summer sun,

cleaving through the cold, awakening,

making way for warmth in my own arms.

I will learn to trust the world again,

but first — let me burn out to the very core

to my roused poetry’s content,

so that this core could collapse once more,

creating a brand new everlasting starry state

every wanderer would wish to gaze upon.

Let. Me. Burn.

The “You” in Me

Everything inside me

is screaming at the world,

wishing to protest, rebel

and execute ever so violently

the “you” that’s now a part of me.

This ongoing war is raging,

withering away from freezing heat,

blurring my visionary religion

so I am forced to admit my defeat.

As I lay down the arms,

a bitter revelation strikes

my weary mind and broken spirit:

the “you” within me is not a scar —

it is an open wound I have to bear

to find my truest self in art

and keep on living with it.

Prove me wrong

Prove me wrong.

Tell me it’s all in my head

and you’re free of devastating regrets.

Tell me our days are over

before your love could have even reigned.

Tell me we parted ways forever

and will never see or hear each other again.

Prove me wrong.

Tell me you’re not afraid

of the shackles any relationship brings.

Tell me you don’t want to call

every day just to say: “How are things?”

Tell me we’ve come to an end —

burnt out in a blaze of glory.

Tell me you wish to forget

our way too short-lived story.

Prove me wrong.

Tell me you do not miss me at all,

nor my loving eyes or touch.

Tell me you do not feel alone

when it all feels a little too much.

Tell me you want to let go

of “me and you” being in the same sentence.

Just say something so that in the long haul

you could finally prove me wrong

and forget altogether about my existence.

Siren Song

Trapped in the in-between

without an exit or escape.

You, darling, are a phantom limb

I can still feel through all my days.

I do not wish to disappear,

succumbing to this barren void

and petrifying, horrid fear

I’m way too acutely aware of.

Instead I want to turn the volume up —

I want to be loud.

I want you to hear.

I want you to see

how I’m completely spun out,

how I long to reverse

this intangible dream.