Witching Hour
Six hours before my alarm rings
I'm stood on my friend's street
staring at stars
I'm stood on my friend's street
staring at stars
Creative Work
Beautiful and Laughing by Lucy Whalen
These days, you'll find me
running down the middle of the road
running down the middle of the road
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels
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Genesis: The Siren
I made the Milky Way out of seaweed
and sang of light in a nursery rhyme,
and sang of light in a nursery rhyme,
Photo by Blue Arauz on Pexels
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Before the Storm
Sing to me
Through cracks
In the Temple walls
Through cracks
In the Temple walls
Photo by Jonathan Borba on Pexels
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After the Storm
When he hung you up there,
Did you pray?
Did you pray?
Photo by Sidney lima on Pexels
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We Wake With the Moon
She watches us always,
And we don’t care for the End...
And we don’t care for the End...
Photo by Dark Indigo on Pexels
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Doomsday
A room
That feels
Like an old movie
Playing on a loop...
That feels
Like an old movie
Playing on a loop...
Photo by Cameron Casey on Pexels
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The Last Star and The Girl at the Piano by Lucy Whalen
Sometimes, around this time of year,
You can see what a real angel looks like.
You can see what a real angel looks like.
Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels
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Daughters of Eve by Lucy Whalen
I sing when the storm comes,
Because the fields and streams and wind farms
Need to dance...
Because the fields and streams and wind farms
Need to dance...
Photo by Alina Chernii on Pexels
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Mary by Lucy Whalen
This isn’t a love story,
This is a girl, finding a reason
To walk through snow...
This is a girl, finding a reason
To walk through snow...
The Blood Ballad by Lucy Whalen | International Women’s Day Celebration
Who bled, like all others,
The future not her choice,
Never hers to control:
For their blood they are sold,
And walked down the aisle.
There was no thunder strike,
When, too soon, the river dried,
And the mark wasn’t there.
She still hoped to be saved,
By then it was too late…
But these mouths, so bitter,
Said it’s what she was made for,
Marred by an unchanged name.
The future not her choice,
Never hers to control:
For their blood they are sold,
And walked down the aisle.
There was no thunder strike,
When, too soon, the river dried,
And the mark wasn’t there.
She still hoped to be saved,
By then it was too late…
But these mouths, so bitter,
Said it’s what she was made for,
Marred by an unchanged name.
