• prestonbryant93

The Night Orchard

Updated: Feb 20, 2019

She was a night orchard, who gave birth to unseen beauty.

She was a captive of spirit & protector of secret scents.

She was unable to hurt others, but could so easily be hurt.

Power did not appeal to her the way brokenness did.

For in brokenness, she could remain open and tender,

Like the womb before the entrance of a spirit.

Her complexion and the warmth of her skin in the morning

Opened doors into inside lands. That is where I laid my head to rest.

That is where I learnt. That is where I became whole.

At certain times, I would follow her into the passage of her eyes, and

Once, while making love, the flames of a candle applauded us

By releasing vanilla smoke.

She was holy, intricate, and gentle with a maternal stroke.

But she was unaware of all this. It came through her in the

Same way the scent of a rose comes through it: unknowingly.

This caused a fair bit of trouble, though. I would speak to her saying,

"Perhaps, my dear, the reason why you don't believe in yourself is because you are shining too bright. Your beauty has blinded you from seeing it.

My love, what if the sun looked for itself? It would find a thousand different reasons why it is not perfect. It would search, day after day, for approval from the objects it shines on for validation.

But when it shines without approval and spreads itself

in naturalness, the universe folds into eternity, barriers break,

Hummingbirds pray, and calcified hearts open—

Causing who-knows-what to make an appearance.

I must admit: I am not sure when I will see you again.

I have finished reading the story of an angel... for now

When I am asked if it was worth it, I will show them the light in my tear

stained by a memory of you jumping on a bed in Bali.

20 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

The Secret

There is a secret amidst us, flowering in susceptible minds that are ready and willing to taste a new kind of freedom. It is hard to hear it, for it comes in whispers and announces itself beneath the

The Mountain

A character in a movie is clinging on desperately to the edge of a mountain. He knows there is no one around to save him. The rocks continue to fall. The fingers are frail and cut. Giving up the fight

Will Is A Whisp

when there is softness, a revolution is bound to take place in the heart, there, where mystics are taken to the hidden pulpit. And they will rebel into the night, carrying scars of sincerity on their