I wonder whether birds fly objectively. When they flap their wings, and charge their path, if they’re moving knowingly. Even when the wind is rough and sun won’t shine and still they fly and fly and fly.

When they glide through and through relentless squalls and still—I’ve become curious about their sweet candor. Daunted by forces beyond their will and still they fly. And they fly like they flew and have flown and always will.

© Kyanna Kitt


I carefully searched for myself in the nightly place. Picking apart metaphors in search for relevancy. Purposefully choosing the innate truth over nature and what I deserve. Beneath the noise, under the bumbling of the voices—the thoughts and unspoken words. I listened to your reflection. The imagery. Gorgeous, bright oxygen. If it weren’t for you, your likeness, I wouldn’t be.

© Kyanna Kitt


I smell the flowers all the time

I walk between the blades of rye

I lift my head beyond their leaves

I pray dear Lord, upon the eve


And in the night beneath ruffled throw

Between the clouds, I’ll surely go

And in the morn before I wake

The kindest gift He’ll surely take


For in the night when I’m alive

When pain is gone and sorrow dies

A fearsome tome of jaded feat

Allures my heart; the great deceit


© Kyanna Kitt


Every morning I wake laid upon the bed, my head on black satin pillow case—eyes fixed on something in the air. Dreams of the night’s eve haunt me. My heart bent on solace or at least an attempt to reach new. The chains of yesterday, the idea of perfection, my imminent demise.

© Kyanna K.