It was a golden hour,
Seashells crawl on the sandy bottom.
I traced your name out of a four-leaf clover.
Just to save me from boredom.
I packed my books and sweater,
As well as the haunted memories.
To run is to make it better,
Like my delectable wild berries.
The saltbox house looks so serene.
As I touch its knobs and saw the foyer,
The creaking floors smell like chlorine,
I can feel the wind whispering to me to come closer.
Frames hang on the mossy wall,
Medieval books tumbled out on the shelves.
Torn pages and words gave me a call,
Behind the nightstand where I delved.
I stepped on the dirty floors of the bedroom
Until I reached the terrace.
The ambiance there is like weaving an old loom,
As I untangled my hair and dropped the lace.
The sandy beachfront is on the brink of extinction,
Enveloped by opaque mist and deceitful projections.
I lingered there on the balcony for hours,
Until the haze became perilous bars.
The saltbox house witnessed numerous crimes,
It was assumed to be an apocryphal.
Condemned by totems of a curse during dire times,
No one can comprehend its ambiance.
YOU ARE READING
The 18th Amendment (Revised Edition) (Anthology I)
PoetryTrying to reinvent himself during dire times. He found himself in a crooked path that no one leads to happiness.
