WHISPERED REMNANTS AT THE APRICOT ORCHARD
roseli pineda-castro
The apricot orchard at dusk, where the soft murmurs in a language of hearts longed to escape from the
gentle cowardy of the soul.
The regret, similar to the melancholy of the piano, everlastingly bittersweet.
To remember that no change has come neither from the beginning nor the end.
That the rain drops that fell upon the dusty roads could not satisfy the famine of the soil, their trace long
gone the next day when the sun shone.
That the echoes of laughs that were brought to life in the darkest tunnels, far from the streetlights, will
never be as passionate as when they were born.
That the constellations will have loved to be admired and traced by human fingers in deep regard and
gazed at in wonder, but no matter how alluring the stars can be, they must always leave.
Dancing in the rain, wanting to be hidden by the clearest of waters, is a futile device in whatever covers
the eternity between the time where you live and die.
No words that are truly meaningful ever truly spoken, but the ones that have had the privilege of being
released carry the ache and longing of those unspoken.
But the nightmare that has risen from the memories is the journey through the ancient streets, hand in
hand.
Knowing that skin wasn’t meant to hold another’s, so it would be binded to a sculpture’s hand.
Stepping and waltzing around on the wet surface of the soil it was rained upon, the rawness of youth and
screams of ambition and desire, and knowing everything that does not matter, how the world rains upon
the naive.
The moon’s glow is the bearer of the secret that whispered in the ache of absence in a solitary room.
An addiction to one’s reflection in a stream with rippling water, unbeknownst to the fact that the image
they see is broken and blurred, and a corrupt wish.
To sing an ode to silence with each passing day, yet finding solace whenever its violent loneliness comes
to a halt.
The pages of the experience that commenced right before the presence of the apricot orchard, well
beloved once, become worn.
The sweet smell of jasmine on a warm wind, too sweet for the acrid taste of existence.
Summer’s embrace, no longer a source of shelter from the cold, has begun to blaze ardently in the worst
of manners imaginable.
The wandering through fields of wildflowers ended when the timeless season became far too much, the
flood killing rather than giving.
The candlelight is bright and the flame, full of life. Though, the candle burns away the second it's lit.
How lively, vigorous, and carelessly it lives, forgetting that it is nearer to the end than ever. The same face that becomes so familiar to the extent where our fingers know exactly just where to trace, encaptured in summer storms and tangled in the light of fireflies. Fleeting is what all this is, it is the life that has been needed all along, and it is thought as a paradise, though that is wrong.
SOUL'S SONG MIDST THE MELANCHOLY MELODIES
Stone walls, guiding whispered words into echoes.
Clear streams of water and rough rocks, freedom, and the solitary struggle to remain in stance.
Peach trees, tempting to give rather than to simply keep for themselves .
Washing rotten fruit does not aid in preserving it for eternity.
To finally love the sun and each tree leaf individually, to learn that the soil is the earth's skin, and wish to
lie upon it more often to cry when the sun comes rather than just admire it.
A piano’s passion comes to a halt, and yet the ringing lives forever in the stone walls.
Rolling down a hill as a young soul with missing laughter.
Glasses with lenses that don’t fall but shatter filling, sensible eyes with blood draining glass shards.
A heart that is stabbed countless times with a needle, rather than letting it die away on its own.
Reminiscing over what bare feet feel like on soft grass.
Running in the halls, in order to remain hidden, then walking slowly months later, in order to be seen, not
just to be seen but to be noticed.
Craving endlessly to the point where there is a sense of self abandonment.
And willingness to lose oneself even further.
Observing with no end, and but never truly searching
Feeling like a field with only a single swaying reed.
While the run lasts, wanting to be caught rather than being captured.
A temperature glass of water.
A mirror that is always covered in steam.
When you realize the flowers were warning you rather than humming in support.
Wanting to go as far as murdering the moon in silence for driving out the sun.
Wanting to ride a bike while being paralyzed. Yearning yet hating everything from strumming the strings
of a guitar to burning it in the festive fireplace.
How can it be possible to run after a train wanting to stay forever yet leave faster?
How can something comforting cause us to burn in the most terrible ways?
How can you value a necklace and want to break up each chain it is made up of?
If the solution to hate is love, must the solution to the blessed mystery of love be hate?
Only once is one given a body, a soul, a life.
Therefore, it is better to speak rather than to die.
Roseli Y. Pineda-Castro is a 14 year old girl from a small town in Arkansas. Her greatest ambitions include wanting to succeed as a writer and wishing to take part in the film industry someday. Though, nothing makes her spill out her passion like a pen and paper. She is inspired by the aesthetic and feel of different films, Bukowski’s poems, art, her dreams, and the world around her. She adores watching and analyzing films, writing poetry, reading, listening to music, and learning foreign languages. She detests math, science, and her inevitable habit of procrastination. Though she is unsure of what the world will make out of her, she is ready for the world to face her rather than her facing the world.
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