The walls of my room are coloured with the paints of grief.
Something falls on the bare arms of my best friend;
feels like the touch of the pale moonlight.
The glass doll is no longer alive.
Poisoned by the beauty of the roses it bought for itself.
And as one petal dries up, the others start to do the same;
thorns left to be thrown away but I found a beauty in them anyway.
Evil inside of him, he hallucinates sweet and evil dreams at night;
when the only lullaby he hears is the sound of his tears as they fall on his pillow.
And the evil does not want to dream about evil anymore.
The colour the clouds carry, they carry on with my moods.
Across the half built wall outside my room,
I like to see the flowers sway along to the music I listen to.
The glass doll was stripped of its shiny paint and kept along with the dried up petals of the poisonous roses;
inside of my delusional cathedral.
A reel of games played in parks and I'm not the one to play in those same parks where the bruises I got felt more than just childhood memories.
An everlasting nightmare to let go off...atelophobia.
YOU ARE READING
Ethereal
PoetryEthereal is a poetry book. It is a poet's benevolent prattle about growing up, attaining maturity, embracing delicacy, moving on and it's what you find when you finish walking on your path of self discovery...for now.
