by Jessica Williams
In my youthful hubris I was apt to think
that the self was the epitome of all this
substance that I was no Socrates to decipher.
And yet while I was on the brink,
on once another dizzying gyration of my
befallen again by some wearisome blow,
I crumbled like breadcrumbs falling,
falling from the fingertips of fate.
Lost in myself, a sea of doubt and my own
Charybdis rising to piece apart my ego
one ravenous mouth after another.
This dissonance was never my aim
but somehow I will catch myself leaning
toward gratitude, for every arrow slung
while my fortress grew weaker still.
But a tangerine peace quells the thought
That I had suffered any injustice,
and had I never broken down so completely,
I may have never found this placidity,
a glowing a candle in my darkest chambers,
the loss of self in a selfish world.
The Fog Commands
The fog is thick, verging on oppressive.
Its limbs reach out, ever extending
into buildings, and trees, and people…
The scent, delicate, faintly surfacing a memory that,
like the fog, is too transparent to grasp.
It is quiet; serene becomes too void a word to explain
how the fog commands beauty to hang in the air,
to mottle greens and yellows and reds,
to settle among us, in this dewy solitude.
Jessica Williams is a sophomore residing in humble Elkins, WV. She is pursuing a B.A. in English, alongside minors in education and psychology. She enjoys poring over literature, running Cross-Country, and occupying a lonesome table for one—breakfast hours only.