The Rooster and the Snake (and other poems)

Elisa Deljanin-Padula
Photo/art by Elisa Deljanin-Padula

The Rooster and the Snake

In between the longing and the self-loathing
I always thought you would remain
Right where I left you
Climbing the steep canyons
Hanging over me like a pale, full moon

I will never forget the day
I found you,
Where you looked twice
Where I noticed your large crowned head
And when you crowed, it was nothing to me
But a fine tune

I stored you in my memories
The way your eyes darted back and forth
At the flashing lights around us
The way the skin on your hands
Were made up of deep, tiny crevices

For years, I let you peck at me effortlessly
Only by continuing your life parallel to mine
Pleading ignorance, never knowing
My culture, my music, my whole heart

And even now, when I’ve shed my scales
Of the lies I told you
I still miss you when you’re close
I mourn you,
Even though you live

And I know you will not be there
When I decide to return.


A combination of my mind and the
universe must be a jester joining forces.
When another, a friend, a loved one,
crosses my mind I receive a new
message from them.
It must be that since
I think of you all the time,
the energy must vibrate
within you continuously,
so much so that it’s
become your new normal.
That you do not reach for me,
because I’ve always been there,
as sure as the sun rises and sets
with every new day.
That you do not reach for me,
because your wall of fire
is fed by my wind,
swelling and impenetrable,
furiously licking the space
between whom I can see on the outside
and what light lies within you.
That you do not reach for me,
because I, the fool,
ravenously reach for you,
seeking to bathe in an ocean,
from the droplets
of a meager stream.

Photo by Elisa Deljanin-Padula


There was a moment
where the stars aligned
until shame tore the string.
But if the universe
can endure its own creation
then I can remain
until the morning
where the sun will rise
with an army in tow.


The moment you feel
them slipping through your fingers,
water drifting in a stream,
they are trying to impress you, too.


You are
a series of
untidy brush strokes,
colored-through lines,
unanswered messages,
minor fits of wrath,
misshapen smiles,
missed chances,
poorly-timed kisses.
whether or not
I am wearing
rose-colored glasses
I see you just the same,
as a masterpiece
with gifts of imperfection.
Or maybe
I have drawn the fool.

Photo by Elisa Deljanin-Padula


People have asked me
why my art is so dark
and I reply
In order to carry
my Light wherever I go
I must place my Darkness
Just as a shadow
can not survive
without the sun.


My mind
is the most
crowded room
I’ve ever entered
but the loneliest
space I could
never escape.

Photo by Elisa Deljanin-Padula


I like when I
open my eyes at 2 am
to see the lines on your shoulders
made by the glow
of the orange street light,
gleaming through the blinds.
There is something about
the silence and roar of a city night,
the combination of color and black,
that makes this vague instance
in the way a dream
you struggle to recompose
is stuck between the walls of
fantasy and reality.

Elisa Deljanin-Padula

Written by

Dabbler. Chronic overthinker. Aspiring storyteller. Dreamer.

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