by Mazzy Sleep

You expect the sun
To melt into the
Horizon. Instead, your
Feet rake the dirt and
Light reflects like water
On your skin; orange
Dahlias pattern
Your eyes, yellow suns,
You blur into
The landscape, blood red,
Pale, your own
Philosophies giving way
To other theories: what if
What if what if what if what if
Because the sunset lets
Your mind wander over the light.
Nothing is angelic or pure,
You can’t have a history to do
So: every minute, the mouth’s still
Clean, but as events rise, dirt
Will wash your hands. Flowers
Are things not to be touched.
If they are, the beauty’s gone to


Mazzy Sleep is a 9-year-old from Toronto, Canada, who began writing during the pandemic. She has written over 800 dark fantasy/horror poems and short stories, as well as two feature screenplays. Mazzy will also have her poetry published in multiple issues of the Queen’s Quarterly, Canada’s oldest scholarly journal. In her spare time, she watches weird cinema and Japanese anime and plays Roblox.

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