Ana Borcoman (Age: 18)

The rose-thorned shackles grasp the sound,  As bolts rooted into the ground,   Will snicker as the snare drums crack.    Beneath the forest canopy,  Where masks may hide our vanity,  The drummer keeps his steady track.    Around him, nature...

Through the hush of the forest the white fox goes,  Like the spark of white smoke, entwined across bare meadows;  Burrowed beneath silken sheets of snow he’ll hide,  And he’ll plunder for fruit to carry on his back.    The wrath of the winter now sharpens, all ready to attack,  He...

I looked through a mirror that breathed me back,   With tattered hands it reached for me.  Promises you’d never need,  Pleading, lowly pouring shame— ribs bearing weight no one could gain.    As it shuddered under touch and turned,  Its hollowed gaze...

You stand before the canvas unaware,  How soul and body tremble in your hand,  Enliven sketches, carving forth their light,  Till something wild emerged from silent white.     My gaze abides lonesome, hushed within your room—  No lauds assembled for your careful...

This time of night, you recite that languid prayer,   Sluggish, slow into the space between our mouths,  And it’s solemn— with a glimpse of silver wings in latent blue.  Warmth envelops us, as mirrored crimson droplets fall wherefore you shudder.  For why...