Amazing Kids! Magazine

One Harmony We Build

By Emily Cheung, Age 13, California

 

Glittering, sparkling onyx for hair,
Cascading around her neck, to her shoulders,
In one straight, gleaming waterfall.
Lustrous emeralds for eyes,
Which capture and draw those who peer closely,
Unknowingly falling into their depth.
Iridescent dew containing crushed diamonds for tears,
Delivered from the Dawn herself.
Shining, waxed pearls for cheeks,
Treasured and of which lay deep beneath layers of grains of rough sea sand.
Drops of silken red ruby for lips,
The red velvet that smoothens into layers of soft seduction.
Lilies and roses and camellias harmonizing, composing a far
Greater orchestra where she walks.

Thin strands of finely woven gold and smooth corn husks for hair,
The autumn amber eyes that glow in the moonlight.
Legions of roaring lions in her call.
Clouds of dreams floating in the mystical wake.
Honey and spices dripping from her voice
That pull like the tide swelling and ebbing on a beach.
Flecks of gold, hidden beneath the midnight sun.

Eyes of hammered sapphire,
Those eyes of which trodden, flattened dreams lie,
Taking their last breath and shuddering,
And finally they are still.
For they have met the strong grapple of reality, of humanity.
Hair of rich woody earth,
Where the children frolic when they are still young,
Still caressed by love and life’s compassionate joys.
Skin the color of geese feathers drifting silently through the air,
Unknowingly leaving behind the trails of dripping souls,
Melted candles, and small candies that soften on the tongue.
Luminous feather light whispers, beautiful as moonlight,
Like fresh linen, folded, like the rays of sun seeping into the earth,
Silently, folding, compressing into the waiting dirt.
The castle consisting of brick upon brick of writing stored in her mind,
Creating solid fantasies in which the deluded
Can take their pick, and build the blocks of emerging insanity.

They are all perfect.
Beyond belief, beyond comprehension, beyond dreams.
Because they are dreams,
No more than the fog’s everlasting mild kiss upon the
Soft pale cheek.
No more than dew sliding into the undergrowth,
Creeping upon the bent weary stalks of lavender,
Dropping from one dry leaf to one smooth leaf,
Its life precautiously placed in those hands.
No more than the chipped, peeling tan paint,
Flaking, drying, rusting,
Drooping from the walls that seem to close in on us.

One black feather slowly drifts
To the fresh bedridden earth,
Alone.