Diana Dias Creative Writing

You can see a fireplace,

beneath weeds entangled up the walls.

They slither through rocks.

The squatters grow tall

With a half collapsed roof,

it’s more of a courtyard

then a house, but imagine

nights beneath it, the rain barred.

Glass still crusts the window

frames. Rust coats their handles.

Forgotten faces and names once

peered out watching town scandals.

Cinders still lay at the hearth and,

Soot still glazes the stone walls.

Did they leave suddenly?

Did they even leave the house at all?

-Diana Dias Section 4

I sit in my quarters contemplating my new life.

I’m dressed in brocade and satin,

with a sapphire around my neck.

The furniture is carved with intricate swirls

so seamless and fine.

My bed is flawless, with fluffed pillows and smooth sheets.

It is made every morning by maids I’m told not to acknowledge,

as I am a princess now.

My husband, my prince, only wishes that my

oh so pretty face is never wrinkled with a frown,

or any other expression but a pleasant smile,

not a joyous laugh or a playful glare, for my job

is to be a beautiful happy princess. It is a part I’ve

been contracted to play.

I choose this, my new prison,

but a prison forever served is better then

freedom and servitude.

Isn’t it?

-Diana Dias

Her tan fur has become matted and ragged.

Plastic brown eyes, with fine scratches, are still intact.

They witness everything.

She’s in her usual position,

clutched in her 13 year old arms.

It’s dusk. She’s barefoot, in her pajamas.

She’s sprinting down the road,

For her life.

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