To the water I am led to drink up this ritual
aspects of the ghosts poets that haunt me,
through out my days of writing.
The dispatched works that forsee anybody after the
light of the day you yearn for that inner peace.
I can no longer see shadows forbid this erotic
frustrating day. Night defines chaos after the
works are haunting me in my sleep.
Forever and ever,
I remain invinsible, in my sleep.
A contest entry
- Monday's Child by malmadre.
1000 points, ended February 21, 2008, 13 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
Interesting poem, sounds like you are haunted in your dreams, I too sometimes dream of writing the greatest poem ever but when I wake it's gone. Thank you for an interesting free verse.
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