Bloodied chrysanthemums envelop
The blurred lines of the paint-strewn floor
Casting shadows in the midst
Of broken light, fragmented scenes
Memories unended, just started
The gleaming red exit sign
In the back
Hurts my eyes; I was told
That the church was a safe place
Somehow, it makes me feel
Empty.
Conjoined benches
Of wispy outlines, ghosts whose
Hourglasses broke too early
Used to hold gold, left dust
In their goodbyes
Silence pursues
Every so often disrupted
By whispers of white lies
That reflect off the silk-covered altar
Losing their voice
To the slightest breath of wind
I once saw a garden outside the bounds
Of these wood-shaven walls
Ruby-dipped roses
Once I turned my head
They were gone
Maybe I hold on to things
That aren’t meant for me
Hannah Zhang is a 16-year-old aspiring writer from Tucson, Arizona. She enjoys reading all kinds of novels, leaning towards adventure and fantasy. Inspired by the beauty of nature, she frequently incorporates it into her stories and poems. She has been writing since a young age and sees it as an outlet to express herself. She hopes that her writing can inspire readers to appreciate the beauty of life and the world we live in. Hannah’s work has been recognized at the Scholastic Arts and Writing Competition and published in Girls Right The World, The Weight Journal, TeenWritersProject Quarterly Lit Zine magazine, Cathartic Literary Magazine, Journal of Undiscovered Poet (forthcoming), Idle Ink and Eternal Haunted Summer.
