Gone Lawn
a journal of literature
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Gone Lawn 20
Winter, 2016

Featured painting, Queen of Vision by Dean Reynolds.

New Works

Frida Mehtälä

Play of Dark and Night

She cut the throat; whispered and sang of syllables from the depths of her soul. It was an ode, a prayer. Eternal forgiveness when all that's left is the rotten flesh and ugly convictions. Weakness portrayed as a girl.

She danced on her toes under the pearly shine from a thousand lights. The world was her scene and she refused to be cut down, bound by desires. She wanted to be free, free and light as the clouds and balloons swirling above the roof tops.

She wasn't afraid. She wasn't afraid of this world anymore, and so she let go. Let go of all that she once had.

The trembling fingers loosened their white-knuckle grip, sending a shiver through her spine. With her lungs heaving and head spinning. Her only thought was that of blood and murder.

She had planned this all along. The drowning of someone, or something. It just happened to be her.

Seasons of the Soul

The sadness lingers in your heart until you strip it of every colour and take a cold hard look at the grey mass in the middle of it all. Do you see the colours of your soul, out here in the cold, bittersweet winter morning? The chills of your spine twist and twirl like you've never forgotten the touch of his hands. It is as if his warmth still lingers between your breaths. You can hear his words whisper in your ear. Soothing, calming. Piercing through the blackened layers of your being. Frosty leaves flutter about in the wind, playing an orchestra in your honour. Everywhere you go the sadness follows, beating in your heart. Cold to the touch; the tips of your fingers crush every last hope and dream.

Laying down in the snow. Flakes falling from the sky. They get stuck in your hair. You stare and you stare. The tides are coming in. You are waiting- for the warmth, the seeds and watching how the moon waxes and wanes. Still it is too cold for anything to change. Shifting focus from death and slow rhythm to feeling the rays of the sun. They are warm and soft.

Surely you should be broken and shattered by now. Yet, still here you are. Every breath creates everlasting pain. Thoughts to go with it. A crown of sorrow is a heavy burden. Nothing stays and nothing remains. That is true, even for a seemingly endless blackness. Vast in all its simplicity. Pure and raw it tears you apart. But as the rays become more golden it also shines through you. Liquid gold changes the nature of the heart.

Hearts can bear burdens too heavy for a fleeting soul, and still grow sprouts of flowers. With time you'll notice breathless moments also come with sparks and tidbits of roses, scents and petals. Murky woods of inner gardens. Milky Ways are seen in the depths of your eyes; however hardened your chambers are, there is something about the wings of a butterfly, in a chasm of tones, that just looses up the ties you've created in your body.

Pearls of water in the air, flashes of a smile wider than the ocean. Sacred again. Seeing the restlessness of the shadows, how they are chasing each other over hills in shades of green. Pull up the fragile heat wave, with dust of lost connections and ribbons of lovers. Sun is blazing across the sky, meeting clouds of rain in a waltz looking more like a ballet.

Limbs are moving fast now. Your body feeling its way out on its own accord. Can you steer it? This ship of emotions in which you seem to be drowning in. 30 days of summer. Will it be enough before the ripples shift your reality, you ask yourself.

Closing your eyes; lashes against naked skin. Slowly exhaling. Ready now. As the world starts to crumble you fall apart.

Frida Mehtälä is a writer, free spirit and woodland creature from the northern forests. She writes about dark moments and loves to laugh.

Also a tad bit of a crazy cat-lady.