I Love Poetry
I dream in black and white . . contrasting textures of greys instead of pastels. A winter landscape, but existing in no other seasons.
Sometimes I fly, appearing and observing my subconscience at work. People have been created here, or are they memories and fragments of beings who exist in the real world? Monsters inhabit this place. Shadows also move beyond my ability to perceive what they are.
A barren ice lake. A white mountain. An empty house. A blackness that envelopes my body and soul like a blanket, sometimes comforting, sometimes lonely in its all-consuming infinity.
I exist here for almost a third of my life. My second home, my solace, my terror, my resting place.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. I look around to meet her eyes and she smiles at me and takes my hand.
My solace . .
Sometimes I fly, appearing and observing my subconscience at work. People have been created here, or are they memories and fragments of beings who exist in the real world? Monsters inhabit this place. Shadows also move beyond my ability to perceive what they are.
A barren ice lake. A white mountain. An empty house. A blackness that envelopes my body and soul like a blanket, sometimes comforting, sometimes lonely in its all-consuming infinity.
I exist here for almost a third of my life. My second home, my solace, my terror, my resting place.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. I look around to meet her eyes and she smiles at me and takes my hand.
My solace . .
By:
Chagrinned
Age:
46-50
,
Male
7
responses
