The String

 

Josh Young

 

i hold the string when i dream

wrapping around my finger

getting tighter as i leave the surface

 

it keeps me grounded 

moving deeper in my descent 

tides of thought rolling in and out

 

a castaway of my imagination 

islands of fantasy 

tropical and sunny with palm trees

 

i stand on the beach looking out

at the turbulent seas

filled with monsters and trenches 

 

always holding on to the string 

tension builds

the string twangs from the pressure

 

i pull hard

my feet in quicksand 

not noticing the frayed middle 

 

a great snap 

string relaxes like the wrist of a corpse 

i’ll dream forever now 

​

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Last Dance

 

Josh Young

 

she just wanted to dance, 

wearing a long white dress, 

made by her mother, white lace

flowers on the wrists, dreaming 

of dancing slow, she’s the belle of

the ball, hand in hand, 

walking in her heels, narrow 

road, no sidewalks, it won’t 

start, try it again, call it,  

feet tap silently without 

a sound, feeling nothing, 

floating like under water, 

she was so close, rain was 

falling, fog hung like pale 

hands by a waist, they grabbed 

her, clinging, matching 

her dress, soon to be changed

she continued walking, dress 

no longer white, she did not 

know where she was going, 

she did not know where she 

was, just one step after the other

slow roadside waltz, walking side 

to side, not falling, feeling nothing

she just wanted to dance

​

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Warm on My Hands

 

Josh Young

 

it felt warm on my hands

dipping my fingers into it

medium viscosity, thicker

than water, thinner than

oil, black, warmer than 

sunshine golden, getting

on my clothes, wiping on 

my shirt, like cleaning the 

corners of a mouth after 

a meal

 

standing over the source, 

oozing like a small spring, 

slowly bubbling to the 

surface, i put both hands in

rubbing them together, then

on my face, leaving handprints

 

some dried, cracked, i smiled

making it crack more, wide, 

smiling from the warmth i 

felt, against the cold night, 

steam rose, before disappearing

becoming one with the night,

Spirits dancing in the wind

it was so beautiful, so 

warm 

​

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Josh Young is a poet and writer from Richmond VA. He is fairly new to writing poetry  and has only had a few poems published in small magazines. Many of his poems focus on existential dread, city living, and are sometimes just humorous. In addition to writing poetry, Josh Young also does open mics and slam poetry.